


Stuttering Books

by Lilium125, RickishMorty, tanuki_mapache, Yusunaby



Series: Stuttering Books - The Serie [1]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Dubious Consent, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Funny, Gay, Gay Jokes, Harassment, Interns & Internships, Light Angst, M/M, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Sex, Tags Are Hard, Trainee
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 26
Words: 89,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilium125/pseuds/Lilium125, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RickishMorty/pseuds/RickishMorty, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanuki_mapache/pseuds/tanuki_mapache, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yusunaby/pseuds/Yusunaby
Summary: Writer Rick is an egocentric, bored and talented novelist. Unfortunately, however, he feels terribly frustrated.Designer Morty is his biggest fan and the greatest connoisseur of his works, endowed with equally talented.The two meet at a meet & greet and everything changes.Based on the OC created by Yusunaby and RickishMorty
Relationships: Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith, Rick Sanchez/Rick Sanchez (Rick and Morty)
Series: Stuttering Books - The Serie [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1902334
Comments: 80
Kudos: 95
Collections: Interconnected Fics from The Starry Citadel AU





	1. The First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on characters originally created by Yusunaby, Writer Rick and Designer Morty.  
> The chapters will be written by RickishMorty, Lilyke and Yusunaby.  
> This story, with angst and fluff tendencies, will be predominantly ironic and sensual. We hope you like it, as we are pleased to write it.  
> First chapter written by RickishMorty

It was a bookshop he knew well. He had chosen it specifically for his presentations and meet and greet. It wasn't because it was particularly beautiful or large, in fact, it was quite simple. Basically he had chosen it because it was the closest to home. A comfortable choice.

It had been a long time since he had made choices just for the pleasure of making them. Even writing... Lately he wondered how much of what he took out his pen was what he wanted or what his readers, or the publisher, wanted. Since writing had become a job, it was all different.

A sharp cough distracted him from his thoughts. Rick had his legs stretched out on a small table, his face resting on one hand, a pile of his new book beside him waiting to be signed. Across the table, a very long, endless row of yellow T-shirts, shouting like a herd of crazy chicks, excited to be able to exchange opinions on his new novel and to finally meet him. Not even a Rick in the middle: it would have been humiliating for a Rick to ask another Rick for an autograph, but the writer knew well that half of those Mortys were there to get a copy also for their elderly counterpart.

Rick concentrated on the Morty in front of him: nothing special, the same as any other, therefore cute, tender and with giant eyes. He was looking at him with the book tight against his chest, happy as a child at Christmas, waiting for Rick to notice him. The man rolled his eyes, before offering a hand to take the book. With an enthusiastic cry, the boy gave him the novel. The writer removed the cap from the pen, bored, without looking at it rolling on the edges of the table.

"To whom do I dedicate it?"

"M-Morty!"

"You don’t say..." he commented sarcastically, in a low voice; "Any particular dimension?"

"Ke-Kei-0083#, thank you!"

The writer flew the pen on the sheet, in the elegant handwriting of all the Ricks, which recorded the information. Even too scrupulously. Morty frowned, reading.

"N-no, it wasn't Ke-Kei, it was only K, can I-"

"Next" Rick snapped his fingers, waving goodbye to that Morty with the hand and a fake smile.

That Morty left with his head down. It was probably the last time he bought his book. Or maybe not. After all, they were used to the fact that the Ricks were assholes.

Another Morty, identical to the first, arrived with his copy ready to be signed. Rick had written an essay on how repeated actions were basically toxic, but if done by people identical to all the others, it was even worse. Ricks had gone mad because of it.

"Mo-Morty, size V-IW711, S-Sir!"

At least this one seemed smarter. Name, dimension and thanks, bye bye. Rick mechanically signed the book, sliding it back to him.

"Ca-can I ask you something, sir?"

Rick put his hand on his forehead, barely massaging the skin, in a surrendered sigh.

"I'm afraid you can".

“I-I ask it from t-the whole community. D-do you think we can see more detailed and i-intimate scenes between the protagonists next time?”

Rick remained silent, looking at the boy in front of him, who smiled at him unaware. He was fucking tired to see every forum full of Morty who, rather than making theories and criticisms of his work, simply asked for more detailed and numerous sex scenes. Put something weird between the characters and the fans will NEVER stop asking you about the fanservice.

Rick stood up, with a falsely kind smile. His editor had gone to piss or fuck some Morty into the bathroom, so he had the sacrosanct right to do whatever the fuck he wanted.

He cleared his throat, turning to the whole crowd of yellow chicks, who turned to look at him in adoration, with wide eyes.

"If you want more porn and less plot..."

Silence fell in the cue, in a breath of hope, held back by curiosity. They hung from his lips, hoping to finally know the truth.

"Then…"

Rick took the life-size hardcover of himself, which was positioned next to him, lifting it over his head.

"GO READ SOME FANFICTION OR MASTURBATE ON RICKTTER, INSTEAD OF BREAKING MY FUCKING BALLS".

The hardcover flew over the heads of the Mortys, between those who ran away and those who tried to grab it as if they were at a concert.

"THE EVENT IS OVER".

Rick turned, starting to put his pens and folders back into his bag. Did he have to leave before the publisher returned, or he would lecture him for hours. It was the third bookstore he sent into chaos and the fifth event canceled.

Rick stopped, his hand on his new novel, thoughtful, with his anger boiling and leaving room for fear: was he wrong to do so? Would it have been remembered because he sucked or forgotten because he drove anyone away? It was his favorite dilemma.

“Co-could I ask you for an autograph?"

Rick sighed, without turning to his next fan: he only reached back to take the book. Maybe it would have been worth millions, perhaps it would have been his last autograph: he had a mounting desire to commit suicide. It hadn't been in a while.

He grabbed the book, taking the pen he always carried behind his ear, ready to sign.

"To who?"

"R-Ricksigner97".

Rick began to write mechanically, before stopping, widening his eyes.

Ricksigner97?

That was the name of his greatest online critic, author of a very competent blog that analyzed not only his novels, but also the denunciation and political subplot of his works, which took direct inspiration from the reality in which they lived at the time: the presidency of the first Morty in power.

Nobody besides him had gone to dig so deeply to understand the plot webs that tied each chapter, each novel, focusing on that more than on the erections described in the pages.

Nobody had ever understood so deeply the complex and convoluted world that he poured on those sheets, continuously. Or at least, no one who had ever had the face to tell him, also making constructive criticism.

Rick turned around, ready to meet his peer, the blogger Rick, his greatest critic, a...

A Morty.

The light in Rick's eyes dimmed noticeably as one corner of his mouth lifted, annoyed. What the hell was it, a joke? A catfish? Or had that Rick sent a Morty to get the novel?

The enthusiasm was beginning to drop steeply.

"Ricksigner97, huh? Incredible, you are the first Rick who doesn't look the same as the others..."

The writer crossed his arms, still holding the book, raising a sarcastic eyebrow. The boy in front of him didn't even look like a classic Morty, though: big nerdy glasses with thick frames, a stupid hat on his head that looked like a Morty with an eye patch and a shirt with a doubtful interpretation. He was sure that this was not the first time he had seen him, but... on the contrary, perhaps he was one of the Mortys always present at his events. Despite this, however, he was definitely not who he expected to face.

“Does he send you here? Didn't he feel like moving his ass? "

"Oh, n-no ... He-he ... I-I mean, I-I..."

Rick rolled his eyes, opening the book again to scribble his signature and interrupt that umpteenth stammer.

"I’m Ricksigner97".

Rick raised an eyebrow, looking back at him. Well, that was a plot twist. He could take a cue.

"Yes, and I'm c137".

"N-no, really i-it's me... let-me explain."

Rick closed the book with a thump, crossing his arms again and leaning against the wall. At best it would have been creative material to think about.

"I actually work as a Designer, b-but I'm also a fa-fan of our President and..." Morty lowered his face slightly and Rick would have sworn to see a little blush on those cheeks "... and of a-all your works. I have read them d-dozens of times and analyzed them one b-by one. "

The boy raised his face again, his eyes shining, just getting closer to Rick, who shrugged and began to lose that detachment and that security he had had up to now. Hell, was it really him? How was it possible that a Morty could be so smart, sharp and talented?

"This last b-book is pe-perfect too, it’s brilliant and I came to use my real name, f-finally. It’s the first e-event in which I have the courage to d-do it. I-I'm sorry, I-I didn't want to t-tease you... "

Rick was starting to feel his head spinning: if there was one thing he was never satisfied with, it was compliments. More than Writer Rick, they should have called him Egoic Rick. He was so hungry for acknowledgments, confirmations and plaudits, that as soon as he heard them he began to want more and more, hungry. They were never enough. And if it was that little boy who made them, with those giant eyes, which shone with enthusiasm, huge...

“Yo-you’re also very handsom in p-person… T-this always frightened me, m-maybe that's why I never had the courage to d-do it before. Your book is wo-wonderful. I really hope you never s-stop writing. "

Morty smiled, a simple, genuine smile, the kind Rick hadn't known for a long time. There were many things he could no longer do, such as those candid but decidedly embarrassing compliments: the word _handsome_ rang in his head, throbbing. The pause served as a reminder to Rick why the boy was standing in front of him, waiting. Without saying a word, he opened the first page of the book, in a mechanical autograph, dedicated to Ricksigner97. The moment he handed it to him he repented, aware that he could have written something better.

"Thank you v-very much, you really don't know how l-long I've been waiting for t-this moment."

Okay, now Rick could be sure: Morty was blushing and while holding that book in his chest as if it were the most precious thing in the world he was even more... disarming. Also because Rick himself had been waiting for so long to meet his greatest admirer.

"W-well, I better go now, the e-event is over and you will b-be busy... Thank you a-again!" Morty said before giving him one last smile and turning to leave. He didn't look like someone who already wanted to end the meeting, but the most surprising thing was that Rick didn't want either. Except that he was better at hiding it.

"Wait," he said, barely pulling away from the wall, but immediately disguising interest as Morty turned. He cleared his throat, trying to appear annoyed: "Are you telling me that Ricksigner97 is actually a designer and also a Morty?".

The boy bowed his head again, mortified, nodding.

“I-I'm so ashamed of having d-done it and pretending to be a Rick, but I w-was sure that you w-would never have noticed me otherwise. I-I wanted to get your attention... but being a Morty I would never have m-made it. "

Rick weighed his words, unable to answer. He had always been better at writing than speaking, but this time it would also have been difficult to answer in writing. Had that little boy created a real character under a pseudonym only to be able to attract his attention?

"... I-it would not have made sense for the God of writing to take r-reviews of a Morty for good."

At that moment, Rick went haywire.

Perfect. Brilliant. Beautiful. Wonderful. God of writing.

_God_.

In this, Rick was no different from all his other dimensional alternatives: he was convinced he was a God and the mere fact that someone confirmed it to him was music for his ears. That boy literally made him have an erection in record time. Fortunately, he always wore black, a color that could mask everything.

He absolutely couldn’t stay away from it. At that moment he found himself chock full of ideas, inspiration, plots and descriptions that screamed to get out of his head, victims like him of that adoration. He could no longer give it up. He could not help but wake up with those words that reminded him every day that he was unique, sensational, very good and unrepeatable.

He had to have him with him.

"Come work with me."

Those words came automatically from his mouth, without being able to stop them or think about it much. Morty widened his eyes, shocked as if he had revealed the end of his new book to him. Rick cleared his throat, correcting himself.

" _For_ me, I mean."

"M-me? W-work f-for you? " the boy was about to have a heart attack, it was obvious. Only the fact that he didn't believe those words saved him.

“You’re a designer, aren't you? My publishing house is terribly vintage in the way of layout and editing of the graphics of my manuscripts. I would like to upgrade the s-system, perhaps with a fresher, y-younger mind. Who knows how to draw and critically analyze what he reads, before working on it ".

Morty's mouth was wide open and he was having difficulty breathing. He was clutching that book to his chest as if it were a matter of life or death.

"I-I... Y-yeah, i m-mean, I-I'd love to-"

Rick raised a hand, curbing his enthusiasm: “Obviously it will be a free internship. I have to see how you work before I hire you. And then, you will have to contribute to the expenses. "

Morty frowned, confused, "T-to the expenses?"

"Sure. You will come and stay with me, of course "Rick went on, even if he seemed to hear an emotional swearing under the kid’s breath," We will work every day, wake up at eight in the morning, end of work at seven in the evening, unless we are near to a deadline. In that case, we could go on all night. "

From how Morty swallowed, it was clear that they were both thinking about the night in a slightly different way.

"Well? It’s ok, for you?"

Morty nodded vigorously with his head, so strong that his hat nearly fell to the ground.

"A-absolutely yes, I-I can't wait to start, I promise that I won't let you d-down."

Rick leaned towards him, bending his torso with an evil smile: “It will be better. Another trick like the fake nickname and you’ll pay for it, babe ... "

Morty continued to nod, this time more intimidated, but serious. He didn’t want to disappoint him and couldn’t know that in reality he had not done it.

Rick overtook him, giving him one last, sharp look before leaving the autograph table.

"Oh, since you're here... Wait for my editor, explain to him what happened and that I hired you. He'll definitely be fucking some of those kids in the row, somewhere... "

"Y-yes, Boss."

_Boss_.

Shit, that kid sure knew how to make him hard instantly.

Rick turned, again with a grin on his face, but his eyes that remained serious.

"Oh, one last thing ..."

The designer stared at him, clearly still displaced by all those unexpected news.

"... unfortunately, I only have one bed at home."

The writer shrugged, twisting his mouth as if looking sorry, before leaving the library, with an erection and inspiration that both prayed to be satisfied.


	2. Sharing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter written by Yusunaby  
> Art by Yusunaby

_ Have signed a contract with the devil would have been way mercily than that agreement.  _

Designer Morty used to live on the old departments that his college have prepared to the Mortys that were studying on course; but those building were a sardines can of sadness. A jail. Stinky, gray, blood-painted walls than once were full of hopes, ended in a pitiful situation in wich every room was falling apart, the running of water scarced, the mortal cold of the night was also unbearable. All of this hell, however, was surrounded by wicked Ricks waiting to see the unawared boys go by the hall, to capture them and sell them up to The Creepy Morty; or worse. 

_ Yet, he couldn't decide wich of those fates were worse.  _

Morty was smart. He had to be to survive all of that suffering he went throught while college. After wasting his childhood waiting to a good Rick to love him, care about him and taking him out of there to go to adventures, he surrendered. He focused on studying everthing he could, it was incredebly amazing to read all the books that were writen for his grandfather, thousands and endless Ricks sharing his works to a small library at the Morty’s school. He was amazed by the fact of how the mortys prefered to read comics instead political and boring novels stuff. In fact, his breakfasts were replaced by reading his favorite Rick ever; WR. 

He didn't fit between the Mortys, but didn't also between the Ricks. He was just... different. 

He discovered he loved painting by hand, he had a traditional style until he got famous on his classroom for drawing. Nobody really care till he got dared to draw Jessica naked by his classmates. He did it because otherwise they would still making fun of him (and his secretly obsession with books), once those weird boobs were seeing by the rest of the Mortys, he started to get comissioned. He builded a market just by selling Jessica on all her ways, after that, he discovered that the richest Mortys were into kinks. Incestuosos and grandfatherly kinks. 

The money gave him room to bought a laptop and simple draw pentab. He divided his time on reading and drawing, with no signs of needing a friend or company. He got used to work alone, despite he was not. He had his books, and reading the same Rick over and over kept his sanity on point. The fandom of his favorite writer was a mess, by the time he joined, all that he found were Morty’s shittys fanarts and not-related fanfiction. He tried to get along with Ricks online, they seemed to enjoy the hidden connotations, but he got blocked after 3 minutes of being an unallowed kiddo on the chatroom. He could do it better. 

His desperation leaded him to creating a fake account. A Rick, a Designer Rick. A fancy scientist who only entered the chat to give his theories, always the better; an adult that also started to sell comissions online by the only fact of being a Rick. He knew the rules before they were set. He only sold drawings to Mortys, if any Rick would see his works, they would find out the truth on seconds. He never crossed that line. 

_ Where the fuck this guys get so much money to spent on not save for work art?  _

Didn't care as long as the earnings were higher, and he could afford his own equipment. Able to stand by himself, full of curiosity and knowledge, talented and kind... Friendless. Lonely. Alone. He thought several times before going to his favorite writer's meetings, he was the only one that actually wasn’t there for an autograph but by checking if his god was real. God, he was. And was also the hottest and more talented Rick ever, for him. 

He never dared to talk to him, to aproach. He was still hurted by those Ricks who took him as a joke, (that ́s why he left college). He knew Rick would never expect a Morty behind his greatest character; Ricksigner97. That day ended as the others presentations, with Rick getting drowned on angryness to hear those Mortys ask for more sex on his plots. The designer felt his frustation, WR seemed too tired of dealing with that, every single event. Maybe it was the last chance he had to get in touch with his hero, he would have been crazy if he would wasted that opportunity. And what a plot twist he get. Spoiled. 

The house was neat. Small, warm and clean. Two floors. A living room, kitchen and laundry room as first land, a bedroom, an studio and a bathroom upstairs. Nobody would wonder why a Rick with that talent would live on a such simple way, maybe he was glad to have a own place to be; perhaps, he was still waiting to the master piece that would get him out of that dump and give him a mansion as big as Miami’s. Enterteinement could do that, but the main request implied to suck some cocks, and Writer Rick obviously refused to kneel before others of his kind. Anyone, to be clear. 

̈You’re not welcome, but you leave me no choice. Feel in home, but don’t dare to touch my things. ̈ 

By the time Morty landed his box’s stuff on the ground, he started to cry. He had never had a home before,  _ how’s he supossed to feel?  _ grateful, blessed, cheery. He turned his gaze to Rick but he was no longer looking at him, was too busy scratching his ear with a pen, his face was numb staring to the ceiling, like someone who has just entered the reality and regret his decisions. 

̈Thank you, R-Rick... I mean... B-boss... I’ll a-await your command ̈ 

The eyes of the oldest wided as the words of the boy rested on his heard. A row of ideas ran over his mind in the following seconds, every single voice on his head was loud enough to be listen. He was ready to write, oh, how envy would feel his ritual of inspiration against the kid. He got from A to Z in a switch. He ignored the boy to ran upsteirs and turn his computer before the insigth get lost. 

And it did, few seconds ago, when he sat on his office chair. He felt his throat closing on a knot. Deaf before the question of the boy for permission to follow him. He realized that he wasn ́t alone that all when the kid entered the room with his box being holded tighly to his chest. He was cutely nervious, and needed a place to set his devices. 

̈Ah, you again. Right... ̈ 

Rick standed up with disappointment buckled to his sigh, he barely cleaned an empty desk he had behind his own. The boy, by the other hand, got relaxed as soon as the saw the boards fillied by post-it of ideas and tremendous pages printed and glued to the walls; there was several colleges degrees, probably from the whole universe, pictures of meetings (wich didn't ended well) and a younger looking Rick receving his first book printed; morty knew it since that same photo was his own screen saver. 

̈This is like a dream make true ̈ he singed. 

̈Most like a nightmare, yeah ̈ 

Morty sneaked slowly until Rick’s desk to see a new project on process, he could not ignore that he was also using the same application of timetrack he used for his art comissions. The red tag wasn ́t a good signal for five and half pages of words. He felt so related, that heart attack was bitchily warning to return on any moment. 

̈What the fuck? ̈ Rick noticed him looking at his screen ̈I told you to don ́t touch my things, bastard ̈ 

̈I-I’m sorry, d-didn ́t touch it, I just... ̈ 

Rick sat again on the chair, defeated. He was already tired of that shitty novel, probably he would never admit that he felt exposed to that kid as a failure by the fact of not being able to end a work on the ideal deadline, but pretending was also his big talent, so he crossed his arms and stare right at Morty. They were blue, no, blue-goldish eyes; Morty would faint, but he was too busy swallowing his nerves. That was a glance that was asking something without a single word, but it wanted it now. 

̈Is hard to write when they want some especific shit but you know you could do it better. ̈ 

_ Why he was justifying himself?  _

̈I know right! ̈ dropped the kid ̈They ask for things that are nonsense and then get mad if the people doesn't enjoy them ̈ 

̈No stutter? Must happen to you often ̈ 

Morty blushed a little bit, as if he was doing something wrong. Rick raised an eyebrow, he couldn't get more used to that red cheeks faster. No response gave him the chance to check his wrist watch, it wasn ́t night but was late to work. The pressure of that work in progress hit his nerves once again, no time to welcoming the boy. 

̈Ok Morty, this is your first no-paid challenge. I need a portrait for cover. Is something very important, this journal has a week open and tomorrow’s morning is the finish day. Get your shit on that table and start to work now.... you little motherfucker ̈ 

̈Yes sir! ̈ 

̈I’ll send you the editorial requests for email, size, embed, format... ̈ 

̈It ́s fine Rick, I know by memory every single detail about your editorial lay out... just in case ̈ the look of Rick didn’t look amazed but weirdly offended, the sweat went down his forehead ̈I mean, ricksigner97@rickmail.com, boss ̈ 

̈No wonder ̈ 

The adult rolled his eyes before turning his chair around and fit his body into the desk to continue working on his task, the sound of Morty fixing his desk didn’t bother him, but the fact of having him so close, did. It’s about time to say that the office was really tight for two. If it wasn't for the window, they would have breath the whole oxygen in a sigh. 

̈I ́m ready ̈ 

Finally said Morty, turning back to see Rick ignoring him for being tapping the click of the mouse without any valid purpose; the boredom make him turn his chair to see; that child had a better tech than him,  _ damn,  _ but he also cleaned the entire desk from trash and else, adding his own photos and notes to the wall. His office never felt so... alive. 

̈Well... where am I going to sit? ̈ 

̈What? ̈ 

Both realized, not even whishing it, there was no way they could fit another chair to that room, but neither was confortable enough so sit on the ground, Morty tried it before asking for a chair, and he was too short to reach the desk, yet too difficult to work standed on his feets. He needed to be sit; but Rick wasn’t going to give a fuck about it. Not giving him HIS chair, also, he would need it as well at least all night. 

̈I’d tell you to go to work to the kitchen but you already wasted a lot of time setting your shit here, and I need to watch that you’re really working and not spending MY time on Ricktter or something. I want you here ̈ 

̈But the space... ̈ 

̈SHUT UP ̈ 

Rick leaded both of his hands to his head to think clearly, it seemed almost painful; it was. 

He stared at the boy again, he was there standing in front of his wide open legs. He lowered his eyes to grin and opened his arms to his partner; it looked as someone who wants to hug you, but the expression on his face was so sharpen, not on a language that Morty could read. 

̈Come here ̈ 

̈H-How? ̈ 

Morty didn ́t understand, he couldn’t get any closer; or at least it was his thought before Rick grabbed him by the waist and put it on top of him. The chair didn’t have armrest, so he could suit Morty to his will. Now the boy was sitting on his lap, with his legs twice open between Rick’s abdomen; the designer was so embarased and tried to go down, asking for an apoligise (as if he was the one to go on) but Rick forced him to sit again, double as close than before. 

̈U going anyway, we are sharing this chair ̈ 

It was a solution instead an option. 

̈R-Rick... I can’t ̈ 

This time, red was a dark colour to describe how ashamed was his countenance. His weight felt so warm over Rick, almost delighful. But he had no room to start an argue, by the moment that Morty covered his face with both hands to hide his redish look, Rick had already been target of thousands of good ideas that pierced his mind on loop. 

He turned the chair so fast that the silly hat of Morty slipped to the floor, and Morty was no longer able to do anything but work, after all, being on top of Rick gave him the heigh necesary to reach his pentab and screen at its ideal position. He wasn ́t going to blame Rick. Otherwise. For the first time on his age, he felt protected. 

Slowly and afraid, Morty rest his neck into Rick’s shoulder and lose his body. Rick could taste that shy movement, there were so conected, he could even feel the fast heartbeat of Morty hitting his own chest. After being alone for almost 20 years in a row, he would beg to that moment last forever. But he was too busy burning his keyboard on flames to think about it. It was the last voice he would listen at that brainstorm. 

Time flew by while working on silence, Rick was boiling on inspiration to felt anything but rush, but Morty was more... special. He needed fresh air and rest between work or he would fell into block art. The window was open but he was feeling so hot, maybe the heat was sunnier than ever. He moved to go down but everytime he tried to move Rick hug him tighter to his chest and he got more pressed. 

The only logical defense the had was roll up his pants as short as they allow him to get a little more fresh, no shoes either; just tiny socks. And his eyes were getting tired to look at the screen across a big glass, he had to raise his glasses to rest his sight before his head started to pain on migraine. Despite of the writer’s expectation, he knew how to keep himself aware to work for long time without a single break. 

Rick, nevertheless, forget about himself; but it was true. The heat was terrible, the needed to get cool air as soon as he finished that novel, (wich, by the way, was burning as long as him). He didn ́t bother about Morty’s soft movements, but not in million years he could let him go down of him. Even his smell was fuel to picture the muse on his mind into his write. 

However he was once again trying to get down without permision, he took a pause only to grab morty by the waist with both hands this time and sitting him again over his place; or closer. He could felt how accidentaly the small ass fell right into his erection, and dear goddess, it was a splendid feeling, he didn’t realized he was moving the boy’s hip over his thirsty groin until that high pitched moan. 

He woke up out of his trance. He released Morty but he didn't move an inch, was scared. 

̈Rick, is that a bonner? ̈ 

̈Yeah, pretty big isn’t? ̈ 

Rick laugh, and Morty was glad to hear his voice again in a while. But also felt a chill since the whisper on his ear was so deep.  _ Was it hot on there or he thought it twice? First time getting horny.  _

̈Don ́t you know anything about anatomy? When a male... ̈ 

̈I-I know why it h-happens! ̈ 

Morty closed his eyes, badly hidding his face between the neck and shoulder of Rick. He was cute when ashamed. Rick love shame on others, so he put a stand by to the last corrections he was doing before running a hand over Morty ́s back, he was kindly petting him, but scrolling his screen anyway. 

Too much phisical contact for the designer, he buried his face harder into his hidding to avoid panting. Specially when Rick got his hand inside Morty ́s jersey to felt his soft and virgen skin. The hand of Rick was huge in contrast, rough for have wasted a lot of pens and pencils on his way to hand writting starting. He drank Morty ́s soffocated breath on his neck, that boy was going to drive him crazy. Maniac. 

̈Surrendering already? You ́re about to finish ̈ 

That hoarse male voice again. Morty was quivering and the fact of being directly on top of a unknow sized cock was tearing him apart. The double message on his words was too obviously after he felt his own erection rubbing against his pants. He didn ́t like to use boxers often. Rick was still reviewing his whole novel while teasing Morty. 

̈R-Rick... s-stop... idontlikethis ̈ 

Rick stoped his hand at Morty’s butock, squeezing it without too much effort while scolding. 

̈How did you call me? You own me respect, I am your... ̈ 

̈Boss ̈ moaned ̈I’m sorry ̈ 

Rick felt how the arms of the boy rested arround his neck, that was a weak shy hug but allowed Rick to stand up, carrying him from the legs; in that same position. 

̈Well, we better get a motherfucker sandwich of something before dawn, our brains may need coffee also. ̈ 

̈Pleaseputmedown ̈ 

Rick turned his head to reach Morty ́s neck and licking it as his last demostration of interest. His brain needed that flavor more than needed coffee. Morty groaned as his feets touched the ground, his legs were barely useful and shivering notably; better his pants were black or the wetness on them would has been deathly for the boy’s dignity. 

̈See you downstairs, you better not be late faggot, we have just 20 minutes to return. ̈ 

Morty nodded while seeing Rick going downstairs with a grin printed on his face. Both knew exactly what just happened. The poor designer had nothing to do but go to take a ten minutes shower, and ten minutes of breakfast before being lift and carryed again into Rick’s lap. That novel wasn ́t going to finish itself, so the cover either. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope you're liking the story! All the chapters will be autoconclusive, more or less, so there isn't a real plot to follow...  
> Let us know what you think about the story!


	3. The Team

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the Stuttering Books.

Stuttering Books was not the best publishing house in the Citadel. It was simply the only one. Did this make it the best? Hard to say if there was no competition or other market.

The building where Publisher Rick had set up the publishing house was a modest seven-story building, of which the last three occupied. At the top four, there was a giant copy shop, ideal for saving on transportation to be able to print copies in one building. To tell the truth, it had been the only reason why Stuttering Books had been placed there. Publisher Rick was also known as Stingy Rick, after all.

It was he that Designer Morty was supposed to meet today. Him, and the rest of the team. Writer Rick had mentioned how it was made and, although he had painted it as a den of bastards, Morty was very excited to meet them. He could not keep his legs still, trembling and swinging the iPad that rested on his thighs: there was all his work in there, which kept repeating itself in the head for the presentation he had to make to the three Rick present in there. Beside him, waiting on an armchair, there was also the Writer, but with a completely different attitude: legs stretched on the table in front of him, his face resting on one hand and the other sliding bored on the dashboard of Ricktter. Between his lips a half-dead rolled cigarette that he seemed to have forgotten.

Morty bit his tongue, while his gaze went nervous from the iPad, to the still closed study door, to the writer. He desperately wanted to vent the questions he had in his head, but he knew that Rick would not approve. Unfortunately for him, however, his sighs must have been a little too loud. Rick rolled his eyes, leaving his cell phone on the table.

"What".

Morty looked up at him, squeezing the iPad harder with his fingers.

"Huh?"

"You sigh, moaning with your high-pitched voice much more than usual... What is it? I don't understand why this idiotic meeting gets you so upset... "

Designer felt the tachycardia getting worse: four Rick in one room and one Morty. It looked like the beginning of a porn. This was a normal monthly meeting, but Morty knew it was also to get to know him: after all Rick had hired him without saying anything to anyone.

"N-no, it d-don't upset me..."

The writer raised an eyebrow, watching his legs continue to beat on the ground.

"You're breaking through the floor."

Designer looked down at his legs before stopping and swallowing. He sighed again, wearing his glasses over his head as if they were a hairband: he did it sometimes, when he started to sweat and they misted up.

"I ... I'm just afraid of confusing them."

The writer lit the cigarette between his lips, taking the time for a puff before answering.

"Well, unfortunately you've already met one, haven't you?"

It was true. In the event at the bookstore, at their first meeting, he had known Editor Rick and it was certainly not a good experience: he had eaten Morty with his eyes, looking annoyed that Rick had hired him without consulting him. With a slimy, mellifluous smile, however, he had welcomed the boy to the Stuttering Books. He stank of sex.

“As for the others, just know that Publisher Rick doesn't give a shit about anything and that if you want to recognize him, he seems like the rough version of Miami Rick. Counter Rick? Mmh, do you know Ted of Scrubs? Here it is. Obsessed with accounts, stammering almost like you Mortys, half bald and absolutely insignificant”.

The writer put out his cigarette in the ashtray in the center of the table, placing his feet on the ground again and penetrating Morty with his eyes.

"It doesn't have to matter to you to understand who they are, when they won't even see you."

Morty parted his lips, not knowing what to answer. He couldn’t understand in what tone Rick had said it. What was it, mockery? It seemed, but his gaze had a sort of... concern? The boy frowned, looking at those eyes that scrutinized him, without having time to ask what they were trying to tell him.

The door opened and Rick rose indifferently. Morty regretted his gaze all through the meeting.

A sheep in the midst of a pack of hungry wolves. A Jew among the Nazis. A vegetarian at a gathering of bikers who are fond of hamburgers and t-bone steak.

Or more simply, a Morty among Ricks.

The entire staff of Stuttering Books, any other writers excluded, was in front of him and glanced at him, without leaving him respite. Designer felt his tachycardia worsen as he studied the table in front of him, which was talking about marketing strategies on the new book by Writer Rick in a symphony of burps.

Publisher was at the head of the table, with a fluorescent green jacket that was actually the pale imitation of that of Miami Rick. Below, a black turtleneck, matching the totally useless dark sunglasses inside that room. His was an arrogant and self-assured grin, but also of those who do not care about what is around them.

The Editor; Morty had already had the displeasure of knowing him. He was in front of him and looked at the boy with a slimy smile. He had a small scar on his forehead and he was wearing a dirty red tracksuit. His eyes were disgusting; he had a maniacal look, unlike any other Rick.

Paradoxically, Counter Rick managed not to frighten him, but rather, almost compassion. He also stammered like the Mortys, was bald at the center of the head and had a mustache as thick as his unibrow. More than Morty, he stared at Publisher Rick, with an apprehension and reverence that touched fear.

The Writer, on the other hand, looked bored at the audience, propping a pen on the table with one finger, twirling it. Designer looked at him sideways, without his eyes being returned. It had never happened to him to feel so exposed and looked at and yet so insignificant and invisible. Morty would give everything to look at him; if not with encouragement, even contempt would have been enough. All to not feel so... alone.

"... Regarding the ending, if Writer Rick has read my notes, we could understand if it is possible ... to modify it as soon as possible" Editor stared at the writer, with his usual slimy grin, of who points the finger without making it clear.

"Your notes? Oh, yes... I should check the paper bin", replied the writer, without any particular inflection.

Publisher chuckled, lighting a cigarette, while Counter waved a hand in front of his face, annoyed by the smoke, taking the floor for the first time.

“I-if-if the book is finished, we could not l-lose any more t-time then and take advantage of the discounts of the c-copy shop to p-print as many copies as p-possible. We could also p-put it on sale in two days".

Designer looked at him, almost pitying: he had never heard a Rick stammer so much and had to admit that him made quite an impression. Despite this, however, he didn’t remind him of a Morty: it looked more like a cross between a Jerry and a Rick; a quite disturbing hybrid.

Editor didn’t abandon his mellifluous smile, moving his gaze towards the only Morty at the table, as if he hadn't wanted anything else since the beginning of the meeting.

"Then, we could start talking about the cover."

Everyone turned to Morty, except the only one he would have wanted such insistent attention to. He was too busy rolling another cigarette.

"Oh yes, the newbie! I'm curious to know what this little runt has to say... If you hired him despite being a Morty, he must not be bad as a graphic designer" Publisher took another puff from his cigarette and Morty couldn’t be sure that he was looking at him, covered as he was from sunglasses; "... Unless he's good at something else ..."

Publisher chuckled again, followed closely by that Editor's ass-licker, who had not stopped staring at Morty, hungry.

"Thank God you don't write my dialogues..." was the only comment from the novelist, who stepped back on the chair, resting his feet on the table again as he usually did, lighting his freshly rolled cigarette; "... otherwise we would be in the shit, uh?" he winked at Counter, who opened his eyes wide at the thought.

If that was some sort of defense against him, it was not known for Morty. By clearing his throat and already feeling his glasses fogging from the redness on his cheeks, the boy opened the iPad in front of him, going to the cover prepared specifically for Rick's new book. He had put his soul into that project ... it was the first real graphic he created for the writer, despite the fact that in the solitude of his room he had made hundreds of them, all kept in a folder on his computer of which he was extremely jealous. The cover represented, at least on his opinion, the essence that Rick's book hid, buried under the millions of words that if you were too lazy to read, you couldn’t grasp.

When he saw it, Rick had remained silent, motionless for at least a minute, watching it. After a while, he left the room, without saying anything at all, nor returning to the subject anymore.

Morty lifted the iPad with trembling hands, bringing it in front of his face to show it to the Ricks around the table. No examination committee from any university could have been more frightening than the three in front of him, but if he was a student, there was no more certain one at the time.

That cover was the thing he was most proud of all his life.

"That-this is t-the cover ba-based o-on chapter t-twel-"

"We know what it is."

The Editor stopped him immediately, killing all the passionate and sincere words that Morty wanted to dedicate to his first job, to those years spent drawing, to Rick, who was the only one who believed in him.

"The only thing we ask ourselves is why it is still there."

All his hopes and dreams were annihilated by a Rick's slimy grin, who looked at him falsely displeased.

Morty felt his breath cut in his throat as he slowly realized the meaning of those words.

"Don't... Didn't you like it?"

"C-colors t-too bright, c-costs t-too much," Counter explained.

"I didn't understand a shit," Publisher said, putting out his cigarette.

"The thing is..." Editor went on, shifting his gaze from Morty to Rick "... it's a little too intimate."

Morty frowned, not understanding.

“It's far too personal, it seems like a dedication. It’s not salable. It doesn’t attract, it’s a little too... intrinsic of meanings. It is powerful, of course, but complicated. We need a cover that attracts everyone, especially Mortys. "

Morty felt his legs tremble as he put the iPad back on the table.

"Why-why shouldn't they appreciate it?"

"Because they are stupid."

Morty turned to Publisher, without believing what he had heard.

"Nothing personal kid, but Mortys are 80% of our readers, at least according to statistics. They need something more basic, not so brainy. Brainy is a word? "

Publisher asked that question softly to Counter, who nodded quickly, like a trained dog.

Morty heard the writer snort, turning to see him roll his eyes. He still didn’t look at him, with one hand in his hair and a cigarette in his mouth.

Morty swallowed, with the tachycardia increasing ruthlessly: what could he say? How could he convince three much more powerful and experienced Ricks than he was? What could he leverage?

"B-but e-even the c-colors that I used have a m-meaning and if you n-notice a-all the d-details t-that-"

"This is not a negotiation."

The Editor cut him off again and Morty felt his eyes sting, cursing himself: he didn't have to cry. Not there, not at the first business meeting and not in front of Rick. He couldn't make him look bad. Or was too late for that?

"We don’t like it. And it must be changed. "

Designer now had his glasses completely tarnished and he found it hard to see the man in front of him. He looked down at the iPad, still on its graphics. The boy turned and finally met Rick's gaze, who stared at him in silence: it was impossible to probe his expression, it was incomprehensible. The only thing he could get from his eyes was a kind of waiting. But for what?

He was probably looking forward to accepting that imposition, so as to end that meeting and be able to go home. Maybe he was simply bored with all those back-and-forth in which he had nothing to do.

Otherwise why wouldn't he have defended him?

Morty looked at him a moment longer, before closing his eyelids, staring at the screen that a tear came to touch.

He had disappointed him.

He had made a mistake and disappointed him.

And he hadn't defended him.

"I... I got it."

Morty felt the writer's gaze on him for a few more seconds before he looked away.

Publisher Rick clapped his hands, marking the end of the meeting and making Counter jump on the chair in fright.

"Perfect! Now excuse me, but I have to go to Miami. It's his usual... charity event, you know. "

Publisher just lowered his glasses to wink at Morty, who was barely looking at him. All the Ricks rose after him, including the writer, who came out with his back to the boy who could no longer hold back his tears. He was so focused on his failure that he didn't hear the Editor come up behind him, leaning over his ear to whisper something to him. He smelled of mothballs and old.

"Quiet, kid... It always happens to newbies. If you need, ask me... I love helping newcomers. "

The man put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing longer than necessary before leaving. Designer sat there until the iPad lit up again, with a message from Rick waiting for him below.

\- Where the fuck are you? -

The book, according to Counter's predictions, had actually come out two days after the meeting. The events and the meet & greet were already being organized and all the Stuttering Books were in full swing. Rick seemed uninterested in the thing, at work on old drafts that he had fished out and that hadn't made him so disgusting to read.

Morty, however, had been on the bed for two days. He had obviously done his homework by designing the new cover in three hours on the evening of the meeting. He and Rick hadn't spoken to each other, sharing dinner in an unusual silence: the man's ramblings always accompanied their meals and if it wasn't he who spoke, it was Morty who enthusiastically commented on the new chapters that he was lucky enough to read in preview.

The apartment was trapped in a silence that lasted more than 48 hours. Morty hadn't moved out of the bedroom and Rick wasn't leaving his study. Whether he wanted to give him his spaces, or avoid him, or was actually working, it was not known. But it didn't matter. Morty knew he had ruined everything: his first impression on the publishing house had been painful and surely Rick had been ashamed to have hired him and to have put his face on his works.

Morty felt a punch in the stomach at the idea that he could have sent him away from home.

In fact... he would. Why would he have kept it with him?

The doorbell rang and Morty hid under the blanket: whoever it was, he wasn't going to see anyone or get out of there.

"Morty".

Rick's voice caught up with him and the boy pretended he hadn't heard.

"Morty! Go, I'm fucking writing! "

The boy took a deep breath, before swallowing and getting out of bed. He needed a shower, that’s for sure. And a comb too.

He put on his glasses, getting up from there, ready to perform the last task that Rick would entrust to him. It was already strange that he had sent him to open the door. Morty went down the stairs, passing the door of the half-open study, without daring to look inside.

When he opened the front door, he saw a delivery boy Morty in front of him, holding with difficulty a box bearing the Stuttering Books logo. He immediately helped him, while the boy stammered back a thank you, asking him for a s-s-sign.

Morty closed the door behind him, looking at the box on the ground and knowing exactly what contents could be inside. It was certainly the new book, with that stupid, empty graphic on the cover that he never wanted to see again.

He immediately felt the urge to puke. If he didn't see it, he could pretend it didn't exist, could he? Morty walked away to go back to his cocoon upstairs before stopping.

No. Even if Rick fired him (though he hadn't formally hired him), he would have found that book everywhere: newsstands, bookstores, internet, social networks… Morty turned to the box, taking a deep breath. He couldn't pretend it didn't exist. It existed, also thanks to him.

The boy knelt on the ground, tearing the scotch from the box and taking out the polystyrene packaging that protected the books. As he pulled the white balls out, Morty could see the covers of the book better and better, in bright colors, far too expensive.

The designer was amazed, before taking a copy in his hands. It was his cover. Well, both were his, yes, but that book had HIS cover. The real one, the one created for Rick, HIS first cover.

Morty felt his eyes prick again and fill with tears. But how was that possible?

"Oh, the copies have arrived... Not even a preview, stupid pieces of shit."

The writer was behind him and Morty jumped, turning to Rick who was standing and looking at the box skeptically. The designer opened and closed his mouth, unable to speak, to ask, to think. Writer Rick frowned, watching him.

"Do you have a stroke in progress?"

"How... How is it possible that... M-my cover, I-It’s..."

The writer remained silent, looking down on him severely.

"... I-I thought I-I had disappointed you."

"And you did, in fact."

Morty felt a lump in his throat, going back into the room of that meeting with his mind for a moment.

"You didn't defend your job."

Morty blinked, repeating that phrase on his head several times, trying to match it with the previous one.

"What?"

“I know what that cover means to you. I know".

A strange silence descended between them. Rick sat down on a table next to Morty, who had remained seated on the ground. He joined his hands together, resting his elbows on his thighs and continuing to speak.

"I know because I also work like this. I am attentive to details, nuances, symbols, everything. The problem is that the viewer often isn't. "

Morty was still open-mouthed, regretting not having a tape recorder with him: he wanted to keep those sentences forever. He wasn’t used to not being able to keep what Rick said, as he usually could with books. He only had his memory this time, not the pages.

“But if you think that someone else is defending your work or that the world is aware of every little detail, then you are wrong. You must be the one to do it. Otherwise you don't deserve the talent you have. "

Rick looked at him for a long time, while Morty got another tear on his cheek that was going to print on the cover of the book. This time, however, it was of joy.

For a second, it occurred to the boy that the writer was not talking to him, but to himself.

The man stood up, leaving Morty there on the ground and going up the stairs again, headed for the study. He didn't want him to go. He wanted him there with him, for hours, days.

"T-then w-why did you do it?"

Rick stopped on the stairs, not looking at him, as if weighing what to say. Morty almost regretted that question.

"Because it was the right one."

Rick turned to Morty, hinting a slight smile, the first of those days. Morty smiled back, shyly, holding that book in his hands.

"And because I hate those fucking three dicks."

Writer Rick shrugged, before just chuckling, disappearing upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is our new characters! We hope you liked them :P will you see more of them?
> 
> Chapter written by RickishMorty  
> Drawing by Yusunaby


	4. Cheers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by RickishMorty  
> Arts by Yusunaby

Their drinks were more unique than rare: they were not a particularly close-knit team, far from it. Basically they were Ricks, and Ricks were not made for collaboration, but more for individual work. Too egocentric to team up.

But that was an exceptional case: the Stuttering Books team absolutely had to celebrate the success of Rick's new book. Sales had skyrocketed, as usual, but there had been an unexpected change in their statistics: Rick buyers had tripled compared to previous books. Maybe they were the same as before, but they showed up this time instead of running their Mortys in their places.

Counter Rick had made his assumptions, with a calculator in his hand, an Excel document open on his computer and his skin completely sweaty: could they be due to the political implications more publicized in marketing choices? Or the fact that Ricksigner92 had joined the team as Rickyleaks had pointed out, which at the same time had leaked the rumor that it could be a Morty ... Or the cover. Being more intellectual and refined than usual, perhaps he had attracted a different section of buyers.

It was not known.

But Publisher certainly didn't care: the shares of Stuttering Books were skyrocketing and there was nothing else to know. He felt so generous that he had decided of his own free will to offer everyone a drink. The first round, of course.

The whole team was around a circular table, with beers in their hands that gulped down as if they were obsessed: in that one Ricks were all the same; alcohol was an excess that nobody resisted. The four Ricks driped the mug dropwise, as in an unannounced challenge, but that nobody wanted to lose anyway. The moment they hit the glasses on the wood, the only Morty present at the table jumped, heart in throat. Writer Rick gave him a sidelong glance, but not because his beer was still completely intact: he had forced him not to come and go home, where there was still a lot of work waiting for him. A pub was not a place for him, especially a Citadel pub. In addition, the less Designer saw the rest of the team, the better. The boy would listen to him, especially for the tiredness and backward sleep of those last days, but the rest of the crew had insisted so much that it made refusal impossible.

The writer sighed, observing the scene: Publisher laughed rudely, bragging about the successes of the last book as if it were his merit. Counter continued to sweat, glancing sideways at Writer beside him. Designer was busy moving away from Editor, who was constantly bending over him. Morty, in going further, get closer to the writer, who had his face propped on one hand. He shifted his gaze from the boy to Editor, simply raising an eyebrow to make him give up his intent. The man in the tracksuit grabbed the message, walking away, but without ceasing to have a manic smile printed on his face.

"... which is why Miami Rick will finally notice me! Stuttering Books is going to have an important investor, I assure you. The book that I published will not fail to attract his attention.” Publisher finished his rant, lighting a cigarette between his teeth, letting himself go to the chair with a satisfied smile.

Writer looked at him with his eyelids lowered and his face still softly resting on his hand: "The book? Oh, why, did you read it? I mean, can you read? "

Publisher rolled his eyes, puffing out the smoke: “I don't understand why you always have to be such a pain in the ass. Yet you have reasons to relax lately... "

Publisher grinned and despite having sunglasses on, the writer knew he was alluding to Morty, looking at him. Those jokes were on the agenda since he hired him, but Writer had no intention of giving in to those bullshit: despite being over seventy, they all looked like middle-aged kids in heat.

"It’s b-better f-for you t-to drink it or i-it will be deducted from y-your salary" Counter stared at Designer and his still full beer: he could not waste a company gift in this way, it was not fair. Designer shrugged, looking at the Weisse with apprehension: he was not comfortable with alcohol, as no Morty was, if not Miami and a few others. Only once he had taken three shots and remembered very little of what followed. He had no intention of making any more fool with the team, just now that he had regained points.

"S-sorry, it's j-just that I'm n-not sure that I l-like it ..."

"I'll help you finish it if you don't want to..." Editor smiled encouragingly, waiting for him to taste the beer. The writer was sure it was to ask him for a drop, so he could also feel Morty’s taste. That man made his stomach turn over every second more.

Rick took Morty's mug in his hand, without saying a word, draining it slowly but completely, without ever taking his eyes off the man, in a silent challenge. Once finished, he placed it back on the table, with a sigh of satisfaction. A burp sanctioned the end of Editor's hopes.

"Oops..." Rick said, treading on the “s”, with his tongue between his lips. Designer looked from one to the other, seeing Editor turn his lips up, annoyed.

Publisher chuckled, enjoying the scene, while Counter seemed to look disconsolate at Rick. Morty, however, seemed sorry and uneasy about the small alcoholic failure; he didn't want to offend anyone.

"Oh, n-no, I-I'd like to ch-cheer with you, but m-maybe a little sh-shot could be b-better ..."

Rick turned, looking puzzled at him: “A shot? YOU?"

Designer closed his shoulders, playing with one of the laces of his absurd hat: "W-well, it's just that-that is sweeter ..."

"Oooww ..." Editor let out a sigh halfway between excited and tender, while Designer blushed looking at the ground. In the meantime, Publisher had already blocked a waiter Morty, asking him for a round of shots for everyone.

A moment later, everyone had vodka in front of them, including Designer, whose drink was correct with strawberry juice; the most popular drink of high school parties.

"Cheers, bitch!" Publisher said, raising his glass and being followed closely by the others, some with more, some with less enthusiasm. Designer smiled excitedly: he had never been in a group, never, not even in college. He had no idea how to behave, or what to do, he lived only with the constant fear of ruining everything. But what could he ruin? He barely knew them, just as he barely knew Rick ... yet, thanks to his books, he seemed to know everything about him, to know him for a lifetime. He wasn't really part of that group, but nevertheless he wanted to do his best not to be annoying, at least.

Designer watched the writer put down his shot of vodka as he lifted his.

He doesn’t want to disappoint him anymore.

Morty drained it all in one breath, feeling the sweet taste of strawberry that enveloped his mouth, before feeling his throat burn, in a disgustingly strong flavor that made him begin to cough immediately. His eyes began to sting as he felt a suffocating heat, sticking his tongue out.

While Editor drooled, looking at that little pink tongue with wide eyes, Writer decided to come to the boy's rescue, rolling his eyes and stealing a glass of water from a waiter's tray without even noticing. He ran it across the table to him, who sipped it in one breath, disgusted by that bad taste that didn't decide to leave.

"Kid..." the writer simply said, but he raised the corner of his mouth imperceptibly, in a sort of smile. The gesture didn’t escape Counter, who sighed disconsolate, drawing small circles on the table with his finger.

Designer had become burgundy, both because the drink made him sweat, and because of the fool he made in front of everyone. Maybe he just had to accept Rick's assist and avoid both the beer and the rest, without swaggering. If he was in awe before, now he was even more so, although his head began to become lighter and more inconsistent. He knew that feeling and had no intention of getting drunk, or throwing up or making some scene. Right now, he simply wanted to go to sleep, enjoying the calm that alcohol infused after burning so much. An evening with four Ricks, however, could not last a short time.

"Ca-can I r-remind everyone tha-that t-tomorrow we have a-an event at-at e-eleven in the morning?" Counter tried to report, with a shiny forehead and bald head, beaded with sweat due to anxiety and alcohol.

"Fuck, I don't know how to choose... Run away from this evening or cancel the event?" said the writer, sarcastically weighing the idea in drumming a finger on his chin.

"Ca-cancel it?!"

Publisher nudged Counter, who nearly fell to the ground, before ordering another round for everyone.

"Oh my God, relax a fucking time or all your hair will fall out!"

Another round of shots came in front of the presents, this time with whiskey. Designer looked at the glass uneasily, feeling Editor's gaze on him, out of the corner of his eye, rapacious and obsessive. The boy went a little further, feeling the body of the writer beside him, who did not move an inch; had it been the shot or was he giving off that heat? That too was relaxing and exciting at the same time ... Immediately, Morty felt like being under the sheets. To sleep, of course. But how could he back out from that challenge?

He picked up the little glass, uncertain, lifting it to bring it to his lips before a large hand stopped him firmly. It was wrapped around his, covering it completely; Morty turned to Rick, blushing at the feeling of that hold on himself and that look on him. The writer arched his unibrow, as if to ask him if he was serious.

"I'd say you stop drinking for today."

Rick raised his hand, along with Morty's, drinking the glass in his place without taking his eyes off him. If the boy had been sweating before, he could now feel the drops of sweat running down his forehead, with the sight clouding even more.

Editor looked at them with open eyes, with his mouth drooling and the envy that filled his eyes. Although he could not complain, always managing to fuck some Mortys thanks to his acquaintance with Writer, it was always HE who had to attract the kids into his trap, never being looked at with those eyes.

It was already a miracle that he could actually attract them.

"Have we finished this sweet fucking reunion, girls?" Writer looked at Publisher, arching his unibrow and making an allusive nod towards the boy next to him: "Time for bed for someone."

"Oh yes, definitely…" Publisher grinned, indicating Designer who had leaned his head back, victim of a sleep that had finally overwhelmed him, starting to put him to sleep. Alcohol, fatigue, stress, late hours and his age were enough as reasons to make him almost close his eyes, making him tilt his head against the wall. The writer looked at him, looking at those tired eyes, the same as those of children when they fall asleep after dinner in the restaurant while the parents continue to chat. Well, it looked like a pretty accurate image.

The writer sighed, putting a hand on his face, while Designer definitively closed his eyes with a moan. Rick just had time to watch Editor grin as Morty lost his balance and was about to fall on him. The writer stopped him just in time, taking him by his side and pushing him back to put him straight on the chair, but the ardor in saving him from the man's claws was too much: Designer fell on him, leaning on his shoulder, until he slipped on his lap, snuggling with a tired and unconscious moan.

The writer kept his hands still, motionless, raised as if to avoid touching him, watching him slip on his legs in an instant, halfway between the annoyed and the amazed. The table followed the movement, leaning slightly towards Rick: Morty had simply fallen asleep like a child, without realizing what had happened. Rick closed his fists, taking a deep, slow breath, looking up to see how the other Ricks were looking at him.

Here it is.

The time had come.

Those three fucking wives were waiting for nothing but that.

"You know you have to tell us every little detail, don't you?" Publisher's grin was accompanied by the movement of the sunglasses, which he finally took off, sliding them over his hair. Sometimes Rick had the impression that he held them in front of the Mortys as a sign of superiority: those who can’t see a look, cannot read inside it, nor understand the other's real intentions.

"Sorry to disappoint your sordid fantasies, but there’s absolutely nothing to tell," Writer said, detached and superior. That warm, light weight on his legs, on the crotch of his pants, was not helping him to maintain his indifference.

"Oh sure, and you think we buy it?" Publisher leaned across the table, crossing his arms and keeping the same provocative sneer as someone who didn't believe a lie.

"Such a cute Morty in the house, and you never touched him...?" Editor didn’t take his eyes off the little designer, lying down and totally unaware of the speeches that were concerning him; "I bet you’re hard even now ..."

The writer rolled his eyes, before taking his whiskey: "What a bunch of horny maniacs..."

"At least we are coherent" Publisher drank his own whiskey, without taking his eyes off the writer. He seemed to be looking forward to having something to grab onto him; something to bring him down from his untouchable fucking pedestal, where he could look down on everyone.

"The Professor who has never fucked a student... The writer who has never fucked a fan..." Publisher put his sunglasses on the table, arching his unibrow: "... and then he hires a personal whore."

Counter Rick swallowed, with a choked throat that showed his nervousness: he didn’t like the conflicts and quarrels between Writer and Publisher, very frequent for their antipodal working methods; they put him in a condition of very high stress. Both for the awe that he felt for the boss, and for the ascendant that the writer had about him.

“Are you done saying bullshit? If you want the plot of a porn, pay me. "

"I don't understand why you're making it so difficult..." Editor's mellifluous voice reached him and even without looking at him he could imagine his mouth bent in an obscene and horny grin; "We only asked you for some details."

Rick turned to him, challenging him to continue.

Editor didn’t require to be invited twice.

"When you fuck him, does he moan or cry?"

Rick looked at him from a distance, arching a corner of his mouth, disgusted.

"How many fucks in a row does he stand before begging you for mercy?"

Editor put his hand on Designer's chair, very close to his ass. Rick looked down, in a silent warning.

"Have you already tasted him..?" the man's hand came closer, while his grin widened; "What does he taste like?"

The writer's chair jerked back, and Morty didn't fall just because he grabbed him by the side. As the boy opened his sleepy eyes, Rick loaded him on the shoulder as if nothing had happened, lifting him while he raised his glass with his other hand, finishing drinking the whiskey. As Morty moaned questioning, Rick slammed the glass on the table, sanctioning the end of the drink and startling Counter.

"Goodnight and go fuck yourself."

The writer turned, while the three Ricks stared at him with different expressions, addressed to him and not to the Morty who was hanging on his back, confused as who is awakened with a start.

Rick was walking home, fortunately close: he didn't want to go and drink with those three assholes, so the compromise was a place near home. He was so focused on imagining breaking Publisher and Editor's face against the wall, that he didn't notice Morty's voice, plaintive and sleepy, that was trying to get his attention.

"R-Rick ... Rick, wa-wait ... p-put me down ..."

The writer had one hand in his pocket, while with the other arm he hugged Morty's thighs, so as not to make him fall. The boy clung to his back with his hands, clutching the fabric of his jacket, while swallowing with difficulty.

"R-Rick ..."

Ugly bastard maniacs. Infamous motherfucker. Who did they think he is?

If that kid was at his house, it was just to work. Only for that.

It was a pure professional relationship.

Nothing more.

"R-Rick ... I-I'm going to throw up."

Rick finally shook himself from his thoughts, stopping on the spot and letting Morty slide over him, to the ground. He put him on his feet, kneeling just in front of him and putting his hands on both shoulders. He looked at him critically, trying to understand if he was drunk or just nauseated by having been upside down, hanging on him, for a while. It seemed like a mix of both.

"Do you really have to throw up?"

Morty put both hands on his mouth, without answering, as if weighing the idea.

Rick sighed, shaking his head and twisting his lips.

“How could you get drunk just with that strawberry shot? Shit, more gay than i tho- "

Morty lost his balance again, leaning forward and joining his lips with those of the writer, in their first real contact.

Was it a kiss? Was it an accident? Was it just a rubbing of skin?

Neither of them knew, but Morty's eyes widened as he realized what he had done and who his lips were on. If his was an unfulfillable dream he had for years, that gesture for Rick was a hinted fantasy that occasionally came to see him at night.

An instinct, a desire, a wish, a whim.

It was nothing else.

They were colleagues. He was his boss. Morty was talented and good for his ego. That's all.

That's all.

He was just a drunk boy who had fallen on him.

That's why he was noticing how soft his lips were. That's why he was feeling that strawberry aroma. That’s why he would have opened his lips with his tongue, tasting that taste, if Morty hadn't stepped back, with incredibly red cheeks and hands pressed to his mouth again.

He turned back, throwing up on the road in a hangover that he wouldn’t have liked to share with Rick. The writer remained on his knees, waiting for him to free himself, with that sweet and cloying taste on his lips.

Morty woke up the next day, late and with an absurd headache. When he got down, instead of the usual pancakes, there was a whole basket of strawberries, totally devoured by Rick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys!  
> We hope you're liking our OCs and their stories!! Please let us know what you think in the comments <3


	5. Candy

Morty was raised by himself. 

His personality was a complete puzzle made up of pieces of hundreds of characters that he used to read in his spare time. He took what his weak and disoriented judgment told him was the right thing to do and tried to follow in his footsteps. The characters, brave, kind, intelligent, were all the work of who was once his hero. Sometimes he thought that he himself might be one of the characters invented by Rick, who moved into reality for the sole purpose of worshipping him. 

No. If he was, there wouldn’t be an ounce of imperfection on him. 

And is that, among those forgotten gaps that linked the fragments of his reality, his insecurities were housed. His fear of being alone, of disappointing, of losing everything he’s accomplished. It happened that under that artistic and kind countenance, buried under meters of false security, there was a deep pain. The permanent idea of never being able to be enough, tattooed on his unconscious and visited by his anxiety every time a stress attack intercepted him. 

He understood it, then, quite late and without any warning. He had little addictions that could barely silence all those voices that told him he was incompetent. Coffee, for example, helped him focus when designing. Candies, like faithful drugs, were there for him when stress knocked on his door with no intention of leaving soon. 

But depression, depression did not accepted placebos. 

He turned to the pillow once again feeling that he would soon surrender to the coming asthma attack, without his respirator nearby he could do no more than stay calm and wait for the burning in his chest went by, along the pain in his heart -due to a deep and forgotten wound. That and breathing, Olympic task since Rick slept peacefully with one arm holding tigh his waist. 

Although if Rick had held him tighter, maybe the pieces inside him wouldn’t have crumbled like they did. Morty, in his despair, broke suddenly on tears that he could not longer hold back. He had no valid reason to felt that way, despite he was happy and knew it; he had deceived himself to believe that sort of living was what he wanted for the rest of his life. 

_ How much worthed his life to persist before such a high level of stress in exchange of a simple gaze of approval?  _

He divorced from the hug that gripped him and crawled, as his shaking legs and blurred vision allowed him, into the bathroom. He took off his clothes and got into the shower in low motion, the knot in his throat tearing desperately to release all those things he might have said but he but swallowed in silence instead. He just let the cold water run over his body while he cried bitterly,rubbing his eyes and avoiding being noisy in order to not draw the gaze from the mirror. 

He wouldn't stand to see himself like that. Not again. Vulnerable and exposed. Sincere with himself. 

He let cold water give him the fatherly affection he never knew, numbed by the pain of cold water on his back and trembling at the null gust of air that rocked his thoughts inside the bathroom. Words fadding into the drain. Failure. Disappointment. Worthless. 

Oh, for how long he had prayed to feel someone nearby that, as reminding him of how valuable and useful he was, whoever who would listen and smiled him back. A 'everything is gonna be fine', from the lips of someone caring and not from his lying mouth. He was so tired, and sick of himself. He couldn't even do things right for the only person who seemed to take him seriously -sometimes. 

He didn't want to disappoint him, but he could do it anytime. The fragility he was dealing with internally stabbed him in the ribs as a loud moan escaped him, the last one in his best shot. He remained silent, listing all the times he might have let him down, and others where he felt he did. Morty was so scared of losing Rick. 

“But if you think that someone else is defending your work or that the world is aware of every little detail, then you are wrong. You must be the one to do it. Otherwise you don't deserve the talent you have. " 

No. 

Morty didn’t think anyone would defend him because no one had done it until that day. Until the day Rick took the cards from a game he wasn’t ready to play. He bit his lips, sliding down the icy wall until he sat down. There on the floor, he felt safer. 

On the floor, he couldn’t fall. 

He suddenly felt a new urgency, the same one that he didn't felt since he arrived to the writer's house. Like a drug addict who miraculously remembers what it feels like to be isolated from reality. He carved his eyes and came out of the tub dragging his wet steps to a bathrobe that he half-wrapped in his body to go out and went to the office. He did not bothered on turning off the water tap, just left behind the water running. His head couldn't process a single else thought. 

He took his emergency glasses out of his desk drawer, between hiccups and melancholy, to face himself with the only backpack he brought with him at his first lodging, he only one that, abandoned, collected the ammounts of dust equivalent as days worked. He shook the earth and opened it by moving some books and some magazines to find a small metal box quite simple but pretty well maintained. 

He opened, with the care and stillness that characterized him, the only secret he had kept from Rick. Marshmallows covered in chocolate. Last gift from his once-non-existent Rick, his treasure. He trembled at the sight of the little chocolates, as if each one had a particular name and life, and he was the executioner who put an end to that existence. 

He could eat them only on emergencys. Exclusively, when his emotional structure was as weak and doubtful as at that moment. By the time he felt the delicate layer of chocolate melt fondly over his tongue, he had already released lots of anxiety. He needed it so badly, while wondering if perhaps, he could find an answer in that taste, in the same old taste of nostalgia that always deflated his sorrows. 

In that he was, when he heard some strong steps in the hallway, approaching relentlessly at the most intimate moment he allowed himself to have since moving that house. He swore that his heart stopped in the instant when he heard Rick talking to the bathroom door, he knew then that his crisis was moments away from being discovered. 

He was not ready to speak. In fact, if someone would have asked him, he would say that he would never be able to speak about. He was tied to his own silence. To his fear. 

He was trembling so much also, horrified at the thought of a quiz from the older that would end up granting victory to his greatest fear: losing him. If Rick looked at him in that episode, he would surely kick his ass out of his house, along with all of his insecurities. As far as Morty knew, Rick didn’t have the power to heal him, the fact that he hadn't shown it to him yet, was his the only witness of that thought. 

_ Run.  _

_ Run away.  _

_ Run far away.  _

Morty surrendered to his instinct of prey, considering time enough left to leave the office as Rick was yelling him 'at the bathroom'. The idea seemed great, but the execution had a problem, as a result his trembling hands dared to throw the box with the marshmallows on the ground, breaking his secret pacifier in a brutal way. Now Rick would be upset with him for eating at the office before dawning, and the biggest deal, having made a mess at the office -and also over his mind. 

Morty was surely dead. 

Rick, however, entered the room without even turning on the light, with only the warm sound of his computer purring on his ears. He sat down abruptly on the chair and approached the desk to began burning the words that would shape his work. One of those comissiones that pissed him off, with a dying deathline and a lack of soul in the main characters. Just porn without plot. 

Fed, to be honest, by the wet dream that dragged his steps till there.with the wet dream that dragged his steps there. He would never give a name to what he witnessed, that would go against all his principles, his political books, and the secret movement he had on the Internet to free all Mortys from the yoke of being sex objects. Beyond even, his own promise to stay away from them. 

It was not fair. 

It was not moral. 

It was not a damn owl and rodent game either. 

Nevertheless, at that point he could not longer deny himself that he wasn't been in front of that thought, over and over again without being able to do anything but keep quiet and desist the temptation. For the policy that represented being not only the cordial attempt of a fatherly figure, but also his director, supervisor and boss. God bless the boy's voice every time he called him boss without anyone reminding him. Hear it made Rick feel superior and needy. 

Needed by such an extraordinary being in such a young and hormonal body. He was smart, talented and courageous, as well as being educated and standing a quiet personality that he had never seen in anymorty; not in a long time, at least. He could even swear a million times that his designer was more avid than any of his editorial team. 

He had his insecurities indeed, like any reasonable person, but they were nothing Rick couldn't help to dispel by putting a little self-esteem in the boy and tons of patience. It would be worth seeing the result; after all, there was any Morty as intellectual, nerd and virgin than him. Rick draw a glad smile on his face that none could see. 

He was sure that Morty hadn't had any real sexual experience of any kind. His body was clean, with no marks of having belonged to anyone else, other than him. "Have you already tasted him?" Rick licked his lips, this time weaking the barrier he had raised around the topic, either for himself or for others. 

Because he had seen himself awaken at night, drawn by the addictive fragrance of the youngest, feeling like a beast in heat. With Morty asleep and their bodies that close, there was no wonder that he had failed on some occasion.  _ "What does he taste like?"  _ His neck, only over his neck because he was a coward and couldn't dare to touch his lips. 

The suction marks that appeared from time to time on the boy's white skin were the only evidence of his sins, and Morty, taking them as a new type of allergy, was only able to wear the sweater with the highest neck to cover himself. Vowing at Rick that he would buy bug-spray so it wouldn't happen again. So naive, so delicate. 

Cutely foolish. 

Rick lost his sight over the screen for a second, feeling that the moisture in his pants would eventually drain for its own the blood that ran over his veins. Right, the heat in the room was different, just after realizing how excited he was by just remembering that naive smile on Morty. The lust praying for being released was unbearable, just as he couldn't bear either the erection that silently clamored for attention. 

In other circumstances, would drop off and went over his favorite remedy, which was run to the bathroom and shut himself up to write inside the bathtub, where the water concealed its swollen length and the currents of the shower brushed his member until squeezing it under the water, in an exquisite orgasm that stirred up his ideas to continue writing in that strange broth of fluids and inspiration. There was no big deal since he ended taking a regular shower to bury his crimes in the drain, after each ritual. 

But he wasn't in the tub and maybe he wouldn't be until the culprit for his sins got out of there. He interrupted his writing at such a thought, nervous and thirsty for a cigarette to help him to targering his decision. It was the left hand the one on went lower, because he was right-handed and writing was still the priority. 

He stroked the crotch of his pajamas in an attempt to confirm if what he was feeling was a true trouble, he rubbed a couple of times over it before removing his wet and needy member out of his cavity. Rick felt a quiver on his belly, he was so hard and sensitive that just taking it out made him pant. Its texture was a soft layer of skin that shuddered at the contact with his rigid and experted hand. 

If Rick's fantasy had come true, this would be an entire different story. A storytelling about how two little soft and talented hands, between uncontrollable nerves and inexperience, were trying to surround his manhood, leading it against a tiny polite mouth. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought, because he had wanted Morty's lips so badly since his after-bar experience, that their picture was now welded to his fantasies: Those strawberry-flavored pink lips hungrily licking, at least the tip, of his insatiable member. 

His entire length wouldn't seemed to fit into his mouth, at least for the first impression, because he knew his body and it wasn’t too difficult to bet that he could easily reach the boy's throat without completely injuring him. Of course, Morty would have his eyes full of tears and his cheeks -always flushed- would be full with his seed, in a debate between swallowing or breathing at the only opportunity to rest that his selfish boss granted him. 

_ ̈Does he moan or cry? ̈  _

He implored also, for knowing the answer of that question. Because even though a dirty bastard threw a whole interview at him without a clue of what was he asking for, the writer went over the form once and then. Sometimes with anger, others, as in this case, with the deep desire to pass that exam with the best score. 

Rick closed his eyes, terrified at his own hidden and usually forgotten sexual fantasies, he was squeezing his member so tightly, loosening it when it reached the base so the width could adjust to his clenched fist. He couldn't contain a deep groan as he pictured the feeling of being snatching the first time from his designer. Managing to imagine the high pitched shy voice of Morty into moans, gasping tiredly his name only and exclusively over his ear. It was too much for him. 

So was also for Morty. 

His eyes would have been out of their sockets if he had opened them wider. With both hands welded to his mouth to avoid a single gasp of surprise, failing to filter the saliva that would flow from time to time. The heat was overwhelming, his position was uncomfortable and the fact that he was completely naked with only a cloth rubbing his skin had not helped him much. 

By the time he discovered himself fleeing the office, he found out that time was his biggest enemy. He threw himself on the floor and went down to the desk with the only hope that Rick would come in for something and go back to sleep; the possibility that he would get to work was also high, but he never expected that. 

That was unimaginable, even for a mind as creative as his. 

Forbidden and immoral, by the way. 

In addition, the computer screen unscrupulously illuminated Rick’s chest and face, above the desk that did not allow light to pass below his belly; and there in the darkness, was where the slivers of light fell accomplices over the one and only hypnotic action that Morty had in front of him. Inches from his ashamed, cowardly face. 

God forgive the soul of a boy whose greatest porn film has been documentaries to draw anatomy. Remain the image of Morty, quivering at the sound of Rick’s groans coming from the darkness of a room he would then have to visit regularly. Thus, exposed and naturally aroused before Rick’s hand milking his huge limb, causing his moist and steaming glans to drip upon the ground the precum that could no longer be retained. 

The rhythmic swinging sequestered Morty’s gaze, contemplating in the foreground and in a forced silence what would be one of Rick’s many therapies to relax, whose sweat by the way, drugged Morty in an incredibly formidable scent of masculinity, forming an amalgam between the physical and intellectual attraction he felt for Rick. 

He needed to get close and taste some of that wasted liquid that gurgled between his favorite author’s ever-faster hand. A lick from that juicy tip that was constantly squeezed. He felt dizzy from the chills that prevented him from withdraw his sight on shame. The first male member he saw in his life, besides his own, irresistibly hot before his pupils. 

Cumming just in front of him. 

Rick trembled under a deep hoarse moan a little sharper than the last, shivering at adrenaline and breathing heavily. He closed his eyes and realized that, with that impulsive action, he had been completely satisfied. He surrendered on the chair feeling all his muscles relaxing as some crumbs of his orgasm tickled his cock still. 

He remained a few seconds in silence, with the taste of guilt and defeat beginning to replace the libido, it had cum with the image of Morty on his mind. He was no different from his coworkers, or even to any other regular Rick. He took the first piece of cloth he found and brought it at his face in order to cover it as release his last scream of regret, -as if the orgasm had not been enough to release his frustration. 

He cleaned himself without much care, got up and threw the rag on the floor to left the office shouting at Morty to hurry in the shower. Right, because Morty was taking a relaxing shower, not with his face covered in semen, under the study’s desk without light this time; with the floor made up a poem of spoiled marshmallows on the floor. In addition to the marshmallows, Morty’s sweet sperm had spilled as well, without ever being touched. At least not physically. 

Unbelievable. 

And the designer, even with his eyes wide open but with his glasses ruined by fluids, was stunned at the scene that happened without requesting. Rick came in his blushed face, supervised by his eyes that closed at the sudden action, being shielded by those spare lenses that would no longer serve. He took them off to wipe his cheek with the back of his hand. 

The milk was still running hot down his face. Shyness dies at intimacy, or at least it was the glimmer of hope that Morty used as justification for licking his fingers in search of a little more answers than he never asked. It was thick, a little bitter but pleasant; very different from his, that was sticky and a quite less salty. He wasn’t ready to answer how he came up making that comparison. 

He picked up the remaining pieces of him in that room, but part of his dignity and his innocence didn't reassemble in the same way into his puzzle. His only anchor to the reality, the candys, had spread on the floor, in corners that only a vacuum cleaner could find. Was that even important at that point? Morty’s depression not only froze, it took his bags and went far away along with the stress that sank him on pain just an hour earlier. 

He leaded his foots to bathroom, ready to use what was left of the water that had not been thrown into the drain. And then he’d see if his art commissions would pay the water bill, surely, after seeing an anatomy class that close, he’d learned something. After his shower he went to sleep timidly, fearing that Rick would reject him or that he would have noticed what had happened. Like a kid who does a prank and hides his hands to don't get scolded. 

Rick only demanded a silent hug, which help Morty to continue healing for the rest of the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The drawing this time is of DimensionTanuki! Thank you for this gift about our babies!!  
> https://twitter.com/DimensionTanuki
> 
> Sorry for translation mistakes, none of us is native-english :p


	6. Teacher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter and Illustration by Yusunaby

̈Hurry up, Morty, they’re outside already ̈ 

Writer Rick standed his back against the door frame of his entrace, staring at the car parked on his garden making a big annunciation with the horn. Writer rolled his eyes and pushed his half enjoyed cigarette on the wall before aproaching to the vehicule with his particular annoyed countenance. 

̈Get the fuck out of that seat, you’re making me sick ̈ the publisher asked gently to his copilot, the man with a bow tryed to open the door desesperately, sweating before a simple order that pinched his nerves ̈I need that post-it's writer Rick to sit next to me. He’s my starring today. 

̈S-S-Sorry ̈ the counter go out of the car, he turned to find himself pretty close to the writer, he felt like exploding. 

The alluded one didn’t redo his expression, he looked into the passengers couch and the editor rise his hand to smile at him with a rotten smirk; he could hear the publisher yelling him something again before hearing a high pitched voice greeting everyone, aproaching behind him. 

̈I’m not gonna sit next to you ̈ 

̈It was not a question ̈ 

̈Mine neither ̈ 

The publisher look at the Morty across his glasses, he was cheery talking with the counter as he helped him to set his suitcase on the trunk; the editor was already drooling. His own natural laughing land the answer that he was about to ask. 

̈Oh I see, you’re bringing your whore with us... You can ́t stand a night alone? What a pervert, give him a break ̈ 

**̈Shut up ̈** Writer Rick saw how the counter opened the door on the other side to let Morty get in and then he took a seat next to the window. 

̈See? ̈ begged the green coated man ̈Is full now, you have no choice. Get in the fucking car ̈ 

One last glance at the editor, his terrifying eyes were the channel wich his hate choose to make him a warn, and a very false gesture of sanctity from the Rick on the orange suit promise him to behave in presence of the little designer. He sat next to the publisher, then they went straight to the highway. 

̈Alright mothernyckers, this is the day I was waiting since our first launch. We’re going to stay tonight at Miami’s Villa. Tomorrow we’ ll have our private meeting for his gang. This is my chance to get along with him, so do not fucking dare to screw this up ̈ 

The editor rested his arm on the couch, sideway Morty. He felt that harassing glance over him again, the boy spoted at the windows in need to calm, but only could see the bald point on counter’s Rick hair, who was greesy searching for some air outside the window. Morty returned his look at writer Rick, but he used to ignore him everytime the whole crew was together. Finally he looked at the driver who continued his speach as the most important instrucction ever made. 

̈Writer, I want you to sign EVERYTHING they ask for, their celphones, their clothes, their goddamn ass; whatever. Editor, you better stay away from the boys, and Counter, you better touch the Miami’s boy. I almost forget we have a Morty now, if by any chance Miami Rick ask you for a blowjob; give it to him. Are we all clear? ̈ 

Morty felt a chill running over his body, the editor has suited a hand on his leg, starting to stroke it. 

̈Fine, because I’m not saying this shit twice ̈ 

One last look for help at the writer, wich was too busy getting a new cigaratte to his mouth in order to avoid the bullshit he had just hear, Morty tryied to remove the hand but it was clentched to him. By the moment that writer Rick look back to check his boy, he was already alone, with the editor looking through the window as nothing happened. 

... ... ... 

The welcome was simple stunning for a boy that has never meet the face of the richness and well-living. Surely the hundred-times described villa was incredible huge and amazing. Beautiful as the most pure architecture piece, son of the better engineers on the entire citadel. As Morty only had seen on movies or in his own drawings. 

The owner seemed powerful at first sight, but before the eyes of the designer, he was the copy of Publisher Rick and not the other way arround. He never expect to meet him on person, rumurs said that he was incredible bussy on his mafia; no wonder why his team ́s leader was so determinaded to befriend him. 

_ And how he wouldn’t be?  _ The publisher said nothing, but that same night, Miami was offering a party to all of his colleagues and their Mortys, it was a free for all; not a particular invitation as he said. However, the publisher offered a private meeting for getting a better place on that amazing fiesta. 

Miami wouldn’t ask nothing in return anyway, but it would be a good surprise to his boys, after giving them all they wanted, grant them one last whim. That meeting was going to be blasting, and he was starving to earn his part of the gift. The villa was free to enjoy for them as long as they were ready to the signing meeting the following day. 

̈But I on-on-only asked f-f-f-or lodging 4-4-4 rooms ̈ said the counter, shily. 

̈We are five ̈ 

̈Well, pets can sleep on the carpet" Publisher turned to Morty for a second "Can you? ̈"

̈He can sleep with--- the Editor, lauging as a hyena. 

̈I dare you to finish that sentence ̈ Writer Rick pointed at his throat with a pen. 

̈I’m so sorry, guys ̈ the smile on Morty went to trash when realized what was happening, he was an hindrance for the writer again, ruining everything for the very fact of being a Morty.  _ Again.  _ ̈I shouldn’t have come ̈ 

The moment of silence ended being a salad of different looks, each pair of eyes on him. 

̈Whatever, I’m tired of your bullshit for today. See you tomorrow, -unfortunately ̈ 

The writer took the wrist of Morty to walk away into his room, leaving the crew behind, to closed themselves on a barely silent room. The loud music and the screams outside were killing their nerves, specially for a couple of artists than rarely go to parties like that, or in Morty’s case, his first one. 

The writer sighed before sat defeated on the border of the bed, wondering the since when he become lame enough to allow the publisher to use him like that. He was so lost on his thoughts that he didn ́t realize the weight of Morty sitting next to him on silence, like a loyal trained puppy. 

Rick felt the strange flavor of guiltyness when they exchanged looks, both of them were tired of working so hard, and yet, longing to be on home to continue their tasks. Rick would, but after all, his designer was a teenager, he didn ́t deserve the lifestyle of an adult drowned on bills, yet. 

̈It ́s fine ̈ Rick began ̈If you wanna go to explore I ́ll be here. This is such a waste of time for me. ̈ 

Morty remained on silence, not sure of how to behave. 

̈W-what are you g-gonna do here? ̈ 

̈I don ́t know... write something maybe. I’m not on the mood for partys... at least not tonight. ̈ 

̈Can I... ̈ Morty was hugging his legs, feeling the pressure of the editor’s hand burning over his thigh yet ̈Can I s-stay with you? ̈ 

The writer could only give him a soft smile before adding a shrug to his shoulders. Going for his stuff to write before getting hit again for his muse, painfully screaming thousands of ideas, as Morty lyed on bed to draw. Both on silence, only making few comments to check if the other was still there. 

... ... ... 

Morty woke up covered by an urge for feeling protection. It was been a nightmare. He usually have nightmares but not as raw as this one; he read once than sleeping on a strange place can be hard, and it was indeed. He put his glasses on to reach for his partner, he wasn ́t on the room. His anxiety could have killed him at jumping out of bed thinking if something bad happened to him. 

He swallowed heavily before putting his shoes on and going to search him. Nevertheless, a bucket of reality fell straigth into his mind, outside the room, the party was popping at his best point. He was alone and anything he could see were endless versions of him and his boss, enjoying and having a good time as he felt his lungs out of breath. 

But he had to be strong. Strong for Rick. Not the disappointment he thought himself was. 

He follow the corridor until reaching a room the double of big and the twice of crowded, with a bar at the center and several tables fulled by Ricks and Mortys. He felt his belly twist, he could not imagine how people find partys funny. The music was ruining his concentration, so he went foward to find his Rick and get away of that new world. 

And a hard false laugh caught his attention, it was clearly familiar despite had been hearing the same voice of his ‘grandfather’ from everywhere. He follow it until a table at the end of the tabledance, it was his team; for the second time in his life, he felt the relief of meeting someone known at least. 

̈Guys have you seen Rick? ̈ 

The crew stared at him interrumpting their talk, as if he was the most strange alien ever seen. The publisher continued speaking, the editor say a joke of ‘everyone here is a Rick’, and the Counter just shook his head, looking back at his boss. Morty felt the angryness and impotence running over his veins. He was deeply sure they weren ́t gonna help him, it was been his fault for giving them a hope to be kind with him. Morty turned back to go, but then he heard the talk. 

̈Probably saying something as ́ _ I’ll write about you, you’re my muse, come suck my dick _ ́ and the boys are naive and gross... they would give their ass to get a spoiler ̈ 

The designer wided his eyes, they better not... 

̈How many ass he can fuck on a day? I have seen his fanatics, they ́re all kids. That faggot must be the biggest lier I ‘ve ever meet. A writer that never touch his fans? You have to be kidding me-- 

**̈Shut up ̈** the laugh of the elders went cut for a weak yet firm yell, it was Morty. 

̈Excuse... me? ̈ Publisher raise his glasses to his forehead, to be sure that the boy looked right at him without breaking in tears, ready to laugh harder at a tender act of protecting his partner. 

̈I won ́t let you talk like this about my Rick ̈ Morty barked punching the table with a tiny fist that didn’t made a sound. His legs began to shiver when the publisher order the counter to move to a seat next to the wall. 

̈Sit. ̈ 

Morty was out of colour, he never dared to yell any Rick before, (beyond upper cases letters on internet, under a nickname that provide him seccurity). But this time he was not upto let anyone to say bullshit about his favorite author and boss. His only and best friend, also. He sat slowly, trying to avoid the fear of being alone against a bunch of hungry lions. 

̈So, Marta-- 

̈Morty ̈ 

̈ _ Yeah whatever _ ... nobody told you before? ̈ 

The voice of the publisher was incredible soft, but it had powder of pity on it. He looked at the other side of the table, the editor was luckily in front of him, seats away of touching him again; finally the counter was sitting next to him, he was harmless at least. 

̈Your hero used to be a teacher on Morty’s high school. He was the favoriest teacher of every Morty, kind, handsome, neat... I think he was language proffesor  _ or my dick doesn’t care _ . But yes, he helped a lot of tiny Mortys like you to learn several languages; and lost their fear to speak without stutting. ̈ 

̈But he couldn't fix Counter ̈ said the Editor with a evil laugh, giving a high five to the storyteller. 

̈ _ Anyway _ , your God... was a fucking twisted pedo with the students. He liked touching the boys anytime and everywhere- 

̈He teach me eveything I know ̈ Editor, drowned on alcohol, again. 

̈He got fired for harassing boys; and I’m the one giving him a second chance to his miserable life ̈ the green-coated man put his glasses back, retaining a smirk ̈I was so afraid since the beggining, what if he lost his control and rape his followers? They ́re all... weak, stupid whores, easy to- 

Morty frowned, publisher moved on. 

̈Luckily, he found you. I hope your ass to be enough for him; otherwise he will have to get other's... like right now ̈ he could not longer hold his laugh, the editor following his lead and the counter was busy trying to clean a wine spot on his vest. 

̈Why should I trust you? ̈ asked Morty, waiting patient until the end of their chuckle. 

̈Oh, because ̈ Editor searched on his phone quickly, showing him a picture of their old team, a teacher room filled by different Ricks, and despite being all the same person, Morty could recognize his own boss, going out of breath this time ̈He was my colleague. I was there the day he got fired. ̈ 

Morty felt his heart broke, he was refusing to deal with the new picture of writer that was fighting to replace the flawless one; he put his last hope on the counter, asking him if what they were saying was true. The counter was unable to lie, but since both Ricks were expecting his answer too, he looked down, on shame. 

̈Jus-t... be cacacareful with h-him... o-ok? ̈ 

The little designer was a crybaby, that’s why he was amazed by the fact of not having cryed yet, he was stunned and perhaps, unnable to digest the new only truth. Writer Rick never had told him anything about his past, nor his life before their meeting. The lack of tears left room to doubts. 

... ... ... 

Rick opened the door feeling dizzy, if it wasn ́t for the big number tattoed on the wood, he would never find his room, they all looked the same. He entered and let his coat over the chair, he was longing to join the boy on bed and have a 2 hours rest before waking up pissed off and hangovered. 

But the boy wasn’t on the bed. 

The writer wided his eyes, feeling his drunkness touching his end for a second. He scanned the room inmediately and the light of the balcony caughted his attention, the white moon getting leaked and the after party burning slowly from the outside. He walked straight to the railing and look down at the pool, everyone were having fun, despite being moments about from dawning. 

He turned his back to the rails, facing the glance of Morty which withdraw his eyes with a snort. He was sitting on the floor staring at the dying moon, cutely covered on a blanket but shivering for the cold wind. The writer ran a hand over his hair before taking a seat next to him. 

̈On my defense, the alcohol is a natural whore for every Rick ̈ he sounded amused ̈I couldn't help get me a drink... several drinks ̈ 

The boy didn ́t anwser him, he was lost on his mind, hearing in loop the rotten words of his team. Rick could perfectly read him, he was acting strange. The writer took the blanket off the boy and covered himself greedy, smelling the scent of the boy and feeling his warm over the fabric. 

̈You ́re mad because I didn't invite you? ̈ The writer look at the same point of the boy, for a moment, he found it pretty interesting too ̈C'mon, don't use that sad puppy face on me, I just- 

Rick thought for a moment, it could be a Rick which entered the room while the boy was alone, his possessive senses went on from yellow to red. He turned to the boy, looking at him deeply concerned but yet serious, he put a hand on his shoulder. 

̈Did someone harass you? ̈ 

The boy hit the hand off him as moving away to the corner, but still sitting. That reaction lead Rick to madness, feeling a knot on his throat and a huge desire to kill over his body. How could he left a child alone on a party like that? It was his responsability to keep him safe and- 

̈It is because of you ̈ finally spoke. 

̈Me? For leaving you alone? What a sh- 

̈For hidding me the truth ̈ 

Rick blinked, losing the thread of the conversation, he moved on purpose to be closer to the designer, which started to talk again. 

̈Y’know, I’ve think about it enough... and I--I don’t care, alright? If you like to fuck Mortys is ok but... ̈ the tears ran down his cheeks ̈I don ́t want to lose you. Who cares about those students? Not me. I’m just feeling... dissapointed beacuse... I trought we were friends. ̈ 

Rick was as white as the moon that printed light on his face; the boy’s watery eyes staring at him. 

̈And friends trust each other... ̈ 

Rick sighed, rolling his eyes in order to look at the night, he body next to him seemed unusually tinier and was shivering, for the cold as well for anxiety, he opened the blanket and let him aproach on a hug that was mostly for sharing their warm. 

̈It was Editor, wasn’t he? ̈ 

̈...and the publisher ̈ 

̈Such a bastard. Incredible bastard, I’m gonna kill him ̈ Rick put again his hand on Morty’s shoulder ̈Yes, I used to be a language teacher ̈ 

Morty quivered. 

̈But it wasn ́t a exciting porn novel as they pictured to you. If you think I’m an asshole, I used to be twice. My subject was the hardest on the entire school, you wanna know why? ̈ Morty yessed ̈Because I did never accept sex as ‘extra points’ and that pissed even the directors ̈ 

̈What? ̈ 

̈I’ve never dated, sex, or touch any student on my period as proffessor. I find it disgusting and unfair, and it is ̈ Rick voice was so calm, Morty felt the sincerity on his words ̈Even as a writer, I’m not interested on fucking with my fans. They still smelling like milk, they’re all inmature kids. I’ve never touched a single one of them. And I won’t neither ̈ 

Morty close his eyes pleased by the answer he was looking foward, feeling his body tired and lose; he was falling asleep on Rick. 

̈Then... what about me? ̈ 

̈You ́re not my fan, idiot. You are my... ̈ 

Morty upper body finally fell over his lap, and Rick felt the relief of ending the conversation. He carryed the boy and lye him over the bed, covering him with the blanket as the very first ray of sun sneaked into the room. He went to take a shower and was ready to rest along the designer. 

Yet, by the time he lyed on the bed and close his eyes, he hear the sound of the door knocking, it was his team, indeed, ready to set the preparations for the meeting; he knew it was going to be a tiring and long day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us know your comments, guys <3 give some love to those weirdos


	7. Miamis meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miamis Mortys (Diva and Brat) belong to DimensionTanuki ( https://twitter.com/DimensionTanuki )  
> Molly (Mortaion Morty) belong to dachii19 ( https://twitter.com/Dachii19 )  
> Thanks girls for letting me use them!
> 
> Chapter by RickishMorty  
> Illustration by Dimension_Tanuki

He was a master of bargaining (and deception), so he shouldn't have been so surprised. This is demeaning. Still, that was the blow of the year, exaggerated for him too: transporting the whole team to the Miami villa, creating the first real partnership between the Citadel drug boss and Stuttering Books.

His idol. Miami Rick.

Nobody would have been able to ruin that moment. He had perfectly trained everyone.

The greatest effort, of course, had been Editor: explaining that the two Miami Mortys should not be touched had taken a long time and the results had been rather unsuccessful. Suddenly Publisher had given up, making a sketch on a sheet of Brat and Diva, differentiating them only with the length of the hair: on Brat there was a large red cross drawn, while on Diva there was a green "v". Seeing the maniac so confused, he had even created a nursery rhyme for the occasion:

_Long hair, don’t you dare._

_Short hair, i don’t care._

It was a mystery if that idiot had actually understood that he had to stay away at least from Brat, Miami Rick's favorite one. Publisher kept the paper in his pocket, just in case.

He had also instructed Counter, begging him to sweat and stutter as little as possible, calculating the timing well: Miami had agreed two hundred dollars an hour for that private meeting with Writer Rick, dedicated to his little blond pests. Counter had to keep an eye on the time, counting to the last cent. He was already quite satisfied, with the box of a brand new Rolex in front of him, given to him by Miami Rick for taking the "trouble", which consisted in having come to a party and pissed Writer to death, which now was staring at the wall in a swine, trying to keep calm in that situation that risked driving him mad.

Publisher looked at the long meeting table in front of him, satisfied, behind the sunglasses that protected his expression. Arms crossed, he watched the dynamics between his team and the two Miami protégés. Writer was obviously close to Designer, who looked at him apprehensively and worried, observing how he had his hands in his face, destroyed. Counter tried in every way, concentrating on notes and accounts, to avoid the gaze of Diva, who had pointed him on the other side of the table and leaned over the wood, trying to reach him.

Publisher shook his head: how the fuck was it possible for such a beautiful Morty (by standards) to go after the most ridiculous Rick? Bah, that was yet another proof of their mental inferiority.

Who was taking advantage of Diva, totally smeared on the table to catch a glimpse of Counter, was Editor, standing behind the blond boy: he had the cell phone in his hand, pointed on his ass and who was taking repeat photos. He bit his lower lip, as he often did when he was excited. That hand in the suit pocket could only mean one thing: he was touching himself, masturbating discreetly.

Publisher rolled his eyes, sighing. After all, he was nervous too: Miami Rick was with him for only five minutes, thanking him and giving him the Rolex, who handed him one of his Mortys (he could barely recognize them given the useless herd they were, but even Miami had to have at least one flaw). Now he was there, in that room, with four Rick and three Morty: far too many; it had been a long time since he had spent so much time in a place with so many of them. There was a stink.

The only thing that had managed to make him forget the disappointment of having talked so little with Miami Rick, was the expression of the writer, frustrated and dissatisfied. Publisher grinned, enjoying internally in seeing him so distressed. If Editor was touching himself because of Diva, the head of Stuttering Books would never have admitted that Writer's expression was making him hard.

Despite the fact that there were so many in the room, there was only one voice to fill the meeting room: Brat had been talking about the paintings everyone had behind them for at least twenty minutes. Wall murals of him and Miami Rick, dressed in formal and serious suits. In particular, Brat, sitting on the table, was telling how he had lost that gigantic and very expensive necklace he carried in the photos, a gift from Miami Rick to their wedding. Fuck, his idol had married a Morty... He had to admit that that news had put him to the test.

“… It cost between 4.2 and 4.8 million dollars (Counter groaned). It weighed in a hallucinating way! And do you know what was the most absurd thing? " obviously he didn't wait for the answer, "That I forgot in the hotel! Hahaha, really absurd! But the most absurd thing is that Rick bought me another one the next day. "

Finally, Brat fell silent, only to drain his champagne and catch his breath. Publisher puckered his lips, disgusted: if he hadn't been in such an uncomfortable situation, he would have certainly said, _but who the fuck asked?_

"And who asked?"

Publisher's eyes widened, almost closing his mouth for fear of saying it out loud. Seeing that all eyes were on Writer, he stared at him, murdererous, barely coughing. The agreements had been clear: he was turning tricks and half of the profits would be his. In addition, Editor would have given a simple spelling correction to his drafts for at least a month, nothing contextual. Which meant he would do absolutely nothing.

The two glared at each other as Brat processed the question and began to understand that it was an attack on him by the guest. Writer rolled his eyes before smiling falsely.

"... To be able to thank him for this story. Excellent storytelling, really ”.

"Excellent what?"

Incredibly, Designer came to the rescue of Publisher's aims, turning to Brat: "And d-do you u-use o-often t-the second n-necklace?"

Brat thought about it for a moment, tapping a finger on his lips: “Mmh… actually, I haven't worn it since that day. And I think the most absurd thing is that I have no idea where the hell it is. "

Silence fell in the room, while Counter dabbed his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief: it was too much for him. The whole villa and the party the day before had sent him into crisis: a single bottle of the champagne they had poured yesterday was worth twelve copies of a Writer's book. Obviously, it had been his concern not to let him know: he knew that every time Rick thought about how much culture didn't pay, he got depressed. Not that it was a problem: he was extremely charming when depressed, with that serious look and all those wrinkles of concern. Diva had to think the same about him, because he sighed. Editor too, but for different reasons.

"Where were we?" Brat said, looking around with a bright smile.

"Ah, I don't know... Do you have any questions about the book?" Writer said, raising an eyebrow and placing a hand on a copy of his latest novel in front of him. It was the one with the Designer cover. He was pointing at it just to make sure that the boy on the table could understand what they were talking about: evidently he had not yet disposed of all the drugs he had in his body from the night before.

“Or do you want an autograph, for example? So we can fucking go a- "

“What Writer intends is to TAKE ADVANTAGE of him while he's here, guys! It doesn't happen every day to have the author in front of you”. Publisher interrupted the writer, smiling lovingly at Brat and Diva, who finally recovered from the hypnosis he had towards Counter.

"Thank goodness..." Editor said, continuing to take pictures from different angles.

Writer snorted, putting his hand in his hair and pointing again at the book in front of him: "Is this your copy?"

"Oh, I've never read it," said Brat, with a satisfied smirk.

Writer blinked several times, without saying a single word. His smile widened, at the same rhythm as his hand, which clung to Designer's thigh, who jumped at the physical contact: it was his anti-stress of meetings, the more he squeezed it, the more frustrated he was. It often happened that Morty came home bruised and Rick, in order not to apologize, smeared him an ointment to make him feel better.

"What do you mean…?" his voice full of candor was a translation of the most scurrilous: _so what the fuck am I doing here?_

Even Publisher began to sweat cold: if Writer had been willing to endure anything, he would not have been able to stand the affront of having come there for nothing, for someone who had not read even a line of what he had written.

"I listened it."

Writer raised an eyebrow, confused, while Designer moaned beside him, placing his hands on his big one, trying to stop that painful grasp.

“It was too long to read, fuck, a hundred and fifty pages! I bought the audiobook. You can sign a pdf, can't you? "

Even Diva rolled his eyes, sliding his copy, well kept but not new, towards Writer and Designer. He leaned even further, to the delight of Editor who, however, cursed for the full memory of the phone.

"I read it. Can you sign it? Ah, ps, is chapter twelve a reference to Coleridge's _Ancient Mariner_? ”

Writer and Designer looked at him in amazement, then moving on to Brat who was looking for the pdf on his cell phone, but getting distracted with a TikTok video and grinning. To be so similar, they seemed quite different.

While Editor said in a low voice that he had added a comma to that chapter, Diva disguised, looking at his perfectly enameled nails and raising an eyebrow: “I have no idea what the shit is it by the way, but on a blog of dazed fans they asked and maybe I could sell the information…"

While Writer quickly lost interest, pressing Counter and Publisher asking them with false courtesy since they had audiobooks and who the narrating voice was, Designer remained focused on Diva: why did he need money if he was literally swimming inside of them? In addition, he knew by heart every single line written on any blog about Writer's books: of that hint on Coleridge, not even a trace. Diva felt his eyes on him, stepping back and sitting down, starting to tinker with his cell phone, mourning Editor deprived of his ass sight, who concentrated on Brat.

"Oh, well you know how Mortys are... Audiobooks are more within their reach-EHI!" Publisher snapped his fingers at Editor, drawing his attention focused on Brat, like a dog trained but not too smart, showing him the sketch again with anger. Editor shrugged, spelling with his lips: "They’re the same".

"Well, my pdf?" Brat said, handing the phone to Writer with a smirk. The writer ignored him, biting the inside of his cheek in blood so as not to explode, angrily opening the book of Diva. As he scribbled his signature on the first page, Designer reached out gently to take Brat's cell phone, smiling at him.

"I-I don't think it's a pdf, since it's an audio f-file, but I c-can make you a digital s-signature of Rick, if you want" .

The writer mentally thanked the boy for freeing him from that situation, with his usual discretion. He felt guilty suddenly. At home he would have smeared the ointment more carefully: he had squeezed him very tightly before, the nails had almost passed the pants’ fabric. He showed no satisfaction or thankfulness, however, by not looking at him and not talking to him.

"Oh ... yes, of course, go!" Brat gave him his cell phone before he finished draining the champagne.

Writer snapped the cover of the book shut, sending it back to the sender. Diva opened it, chuckling and reading the dedication out loud: “To an _unforgettable_ meeting. Ooow, and unforgettable it is written in capital letters! ”

Writer leaned his face on one hand, smiling again, fake, making an allusive wink to Counter, who blushed immediately. Diva didn’t miss the exchange and crossed his arms, sighing, before feeling a strange smell behind him: he turned, finding the suit of Editor next to his face, who kept moving his hand into his pocket. Diva raised an eyebrow, looking at him and barely moving away, while Editor continued to "rummage" in his pocket, biting his lower lip.

"Hi," he said only, in a creepy voice. Diva frowned, turning around and going further in the chair.

Designer turned to Writer, seeing him drumming his fingers on the table, annoyed, still with his face resting on his hand. Well, not that he was never annoyed, but the vein on his temple throbbed furiously and the expression lines on his forehead were more evident. The moment the writer turned to him, Designer petrified, feeling his beats increase: those unsatisfied and frustrated eyes looked at him and the fear that it could be (also) his fault was always present. The fear of disappointing him. Rick's eyes moved in his, as if looking for an answer that Designer thought he didn't have, but that he basically had, to be able to relax the expression on his face, without saying a word. Saying that Writer was smiling was exaggerated, but surely that boy could relax him even without doing anything: the writer sighed, raising a corner of his mouth, as if in a knowing smile with his little "partner". Designer smiled, self-conscious, unsure of what had happened, but happy that Rick suddenly seemed more relaxed.

"So why didn't they fuck in the end?"

The last famous words.

Writer and his eyelids perpetually lowered returned to have the same murky expression as ever. Brat had returned to office, fully intent on exploiting his available hours. Not even twenty minutes had passed.

After hours, the meeting was finally over. Writer had drained five whiskeys to cope with the stress and was being carried by Counter, who finally had a hint of a smile on his lips as he taking him out. Editor was giving Diva an oddly wet tissue with his faded and crooked phone number written over it. Publisher was talking to Brat about the Rolex that Miami Rick had given him, secretly trying to get information from the boy to understand what kind of gift to give to his idol for the imminent "Ricks’ birthday". Designer was there, at the table, signing the remaining copies instead of Rick, as often happened during a meet & greet: he was not surprised that no one had asked questions on the cover. He was used to going unnoticed, and in any case it was Rick's words that were at the center of the situation, as was right. The moment he closed the last book, a soft, kind voice reached him.

"I'm sorry…?"

Designer looked up, being speechless for more than a second: in front of him was a beautiful, stunning Mortaion Morty. His movements were elegant and composed and his gaze was cautious, afraid of disturbing him. Seeing how beautiful he was, with his smooth, water-colored skin, he mentally thanked his lucky star that Rick was not there. He had no idea of his tastes to be honest, but anyone would be left speechless in front of that emerald-haired boy.

Seeing that Designer was not responding, Molly barely bowed his head, looking sorry: "I'm sorry to have interrupted you, I only came because I wanted to ask you the courtesy of giving me an autograph..."

Molly held out a copy of Writer's book to Designer, who blinked several times, confused: "M-me?"

Molly smiled, nodding gracefully: "Yes. You are Designer Morty, right? You created this beautiful cover, didn't you? "

Designer didn’t know what to answer, just continuing to nod, without saying anything. Did he know his name and was asking for an autograph? To him?! That was the last thing he expected.

"So yes, I would love your autograph! Do you mind? You can dedicate it to Molly. "

Morty denied with his head, mechanically signing the copy, still a little wrapped up: out of habit he signed Rick's signature.

"Oh! S-sorry! "

Molly chuckled: "Don't worry! I fear that Writer is a little too... _tired_ to sign it by himself".

Designer finally broke up, in a short chuckle, before signing his first autograph to that kind Mortaion. The emotion was very strong, while the pen registered his signature for the first time and his palms sweated with excitement.

"Thanks," they said in unison, each for different reasons. Molly smiled, taking the book again and holding it to his chest: "I would also like to ask the other three Ricks, do you think they might mind?"

Designer pictured Editor smudging the pages with his drool, while he signed with his shaky handwriting, without looking at the book. Publisher would have arrogantly put only an X on seeing that he was a Morty, while Counter would have spent on a beautiful dedication.

Designer shook his head, with a smile: "I’m sure not".

He was too busy chatting with Molly about the cover, to see Publisher leaving the room, looking at them in disgust.

Writer was leaning against Counter, grunting pissed at the indecent show he had just made. He was clouded by all the alcohol that had drained, equaled only by Brat and Diva who had also become tipsy. Unfortunately, however, this was not enough to make him stop growling.

"Damn bastard _beeeurp_... I'll kill him sooner or later."

Counter didn't have to ask who he was referring to, he knew perfectly well that those words were for Publisher. It was not the first time that scene appeared before him: Publisher exploited the name of Writer, forced him to participate in the events for Stuttering (for the infamous contract clauses that he too had provided for him to sign) and Writer got drunk for don't face all those humiliations clearly. It often happened that Counter let him vent, nodding to his outbursts, understanding and sometimes even genuinely concerned. The only important thing, however, was being able to be alone with him. At least for a while. Even for just a second.

At least until Publisher came to provoke him, insatiable in his enjoyment of seeing him melt and destroyed. Counter felt Publisher's hands move him away from him as one of his arms rested on Rick's shoulders. His sunglasses held his hair high as he grinned very close to the writer.

"Congratulations, you've been _adorable_..." Publisher chuckled, as Rick turned to him, wrinkling his lips in disgust. He shook him off, continuing to walk. Publisher, however, didn’t give up, carrying both his hands on his shoulders, starting to massage to stretch him, stronger than necessary.

"Relax... It's over, you went great" Rick stiffened and Publisher grinned again: he knew very well that the writer hated physical contact, and if it was his, it was even worse. Publisher pressed hard on his nerves, melting and crossing them at the same time, making him moan annoyed, with clenched teeth, bending his head slightly in following the movement of his hands, slowed down by alcohol. It was what he needed... Miami Rick hadn't satisfied him in those five minutes of meeting. He needed to hear a Rick moaning for him, even if in a totally different way. And Writer pissed and unsatisfied was a fantasy that unfortunately made him hard even too often. Even now.

Writer shrugged him off again, glaring at him while the other continued to smile: "Are you fucking done?"

Counter watched the scene, apprehensive, from a corner, trying to go to Writer's rescue as much as possible: "We-we-should-go, we-we still have to free the rooms."

Publisher didn't even look at him, pushing him away with one hand like a fly: "Yes, yes, you go and keep an eye on Editor, huh?"

Counter sighed, before moving away from the two: there was nothing he could do; and at least he wouldn't have suffered to see Writer teased by Publisher. The impotence and guilt for being one of those present at the signing of Rick's contract with Stuttering Books, never went away. But it wasn't the only feeling ever present when he was around him.

The Rick with sunglasses chuckled, while Writer looked at him over his shoulder, annoyed.

"Oh, come on... Don't always be so angry with me. You know I do these events just for you... To grow your stupid wounded and _needy_ ego. "

Writer turned, half-eyed and arching his eyelash.

"To grow your cock with Miami."

"You jealous?"

"You wish."

The two stared at each other, Publisher with his quiet, careless smile, the writer with indignation, judgment. The same judgment that pissed off the Boss of the publishing house. As much as he disguised himself, he would have given anything to get rid of the snooty, superior air that Writer dedicated especially to him.

The writer started walking down the corridor, going away. Publisher's voice followed, rising in volume as he stood still.

“Can't you see how stiff you are? It always seems that you have a broom in the ass... Sooner or later you will have to have a well done massage! "

Writer didn’t turn, only lifting his middle finger towards Publisher, to whom that smile finally disappeared from his face. He narrowed his eyes with hatred, before turning around, seeing Designer who was greeting Molly, Diva and Brat. The three left, while the two blondes filled the corridor with excited shouts. Counter tried with little success to keep Editor from following them, unable to help but go with them.

Publisher focused on the Morty in front of him: Designer's happy, naive and satisfied smile made his stomach turn.

Mortys.

Publisher put the sunglasses back on his face, putting his hands in his pockets. He walked towards the boy left alone, who noticed his presence at last: Publisher hit him violently as if he were not even in his path, making him fall against the wall.

"Don't feel so satisfied... An insect that notices another one, doesn’t mean shit."

The Boss continued to walk, without turning to look at the boy's expression.

He knew that that perfect day would have jarring notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please please leave a comment! <3


	8. Blocked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by Yusunaby  
> 

‘’STOP FUCKING COMPLAINING AND DO IT’’ 

‘’I-I am sososo so-rry, I canotnot r-reach...’’ 

‘’Obvio, you never can do anything well, such a piece of shit. I don ́t know why all of you are a perfect bunch of USELESS douchebags’’ 

‘’Sosorry’’ 

Writer Rick stood his body at the entrance, looking down to the huge and permanent noisy room, now filled by loud words and curses. it was an imminent room, the kind that can only be used as a warehouse, a whole floor of the entire building. The whole press room was huge, but the machine that occupied the half of the place was incredibly greedy with its space. 

The publisher might not own a Villa in Miami, or a mansion with a thousand rooms, not even a jacuzzi in his house, but certainly; having bought a digital offset printer was his wisest investment. It was twice as valuable since it had been modified by its owner (at his best as Rick's engineer side); to be able to produce more printed sheets with less ink. 

However, nobody was going to justify his desperate behavior when something went wrong with his Nena, but if the writer knew something, was that it wasn't Counter's fault and that he didn't deserve being the recipient of all of his boss tantrums. It happened that Writer and Designer were about to leave to home, but they wanted to give the last corrections to the idiot of editor to at least make him feel important. But he was not there, only that unfair scene. 

‘’Leave him alone’’ commanded Writer from the entrance, looking through the stairs to the landscape below. 

The Offset was off, for first time on a while. 

‘’Who the fuck asked you to come here? Fuck off’’ Publisher showed them his middle finger before turning to Counter, sittin on the ground and covering his ears as to don’t listen ‘’Hey, look at me, can you do it, faggot? You wanna cry?’’ 

Suddenly Writer was a steps away from them, Designer was running downstairs to reach his partner and prevent a possible fight, his little heart always crushed by seeing his team arguing, but he could not deny that he also was getting used to it. And the only real injured was always his roomate. 

‘’I said. Leave him alone. This is YOUR machine, not his. Fix it by yourself’’ 

His angry face printed a smile on Publisher’s lips, and a cynical short laugh go out of him as response. Writer frowned even more, Designer grabbed him by the jacket trying to hold him somehow, without a single hint of success. Counter barely stand up, trying to get the thread of the conversation, he was being defended by a truly gentleman. Or it seemed. 

‘’Cha’ think I ain’t try? Esto es increíble... YOU THINK IF I COULD DO IT I WOULD LET A MORON DO IT FOR ME? I cannot go there any longer. Papi, this body’’ he opened his jacket, letting the tight black shirt reveal his sharp chest ‘’Wasn't made to unstuck paper’’ 

‘’Then pay someone to do it, don’t put your shit on him’’ 

‘’Nene, you better mind your own business. Counter is going to do it because I said it’’ 

‘’No, he won’t’’ 

‘’Oh! Then you’re helping him to do it? What a lovely coworker’’ 

‘’Yeah of course, you will die as comedian’’ Writer grab Morty for the shoulder, perhaps more rudely than he would wanted ‘’Good luck fixing your wife, c’mon Counter, let’s get out of here’’ 

The team was walking to the stairs, Publisher was boiling on frustration and it wasn ́t funny at all to watch the writer challenge him like that. He was supposed to be below him, not otherwise. 

‘’Well if you don’t do it I’ll fire...’’ Rick raised his hand without turning back, as a sign of farewell ‘’Counter’’ 

Everyone stop moving. 

‘’W-w-WHAT?’’ finally barked the administrator, covered by fear. 

‘’If Writer don’t fucking fix this shit, I’ll fire Counter’’ 

‘’I can do it’’ offered Designer immediately ‘’I’m the only with the size of- 

‘’Not doing it? Fine, Counter, go to my office please, and prepare your own settlement’’ 

‘’What a fucking disgusting bitch’’ spoke Writer as he roll his sleeves ‘’Morty go with Counter to nursery, I bet his heart rate is as crazy as this situation’’ 

‘’That’s a good team spirit!’’ Publisher clap, bored. 

Morty nodded and grab his grandfather hand, helping him to go upstairs. The bald guy was about to faint, indeed, after having listened such a warning. Writer went slowly until the panel control of the printer, it was still crying on red lights for help; Publisher kept his arms closed, perfectly calmed again. 

‘’It’s the roller ‘B’, it must be stuck with paper, just find it, withdraw it and you’re free to go to fuck your Morty, you need it’’ 

‘’As you’re longing to fuck yourself? No wonder’’ 

Rick knelt, he was really impressed in front of that marvel printer. He had studied it before, when he used to sneak to see the press running and his virgin books being born. It was not a big deal, but he had never touched an Offset before, so he was really surprised by seeing that the only removable door was a small and tiny air duct. Morty was right, he was the only one suitable. 

The stared at the stuck paper, it was there, making fun of the whole company, and seemed to be easy to get removed; but when he tried to reach it with his bare arm, he could not even touch it. He was centimeters away from a bigger humiliation. He swallowed his anger along his ego, and went into the entrance the best he could. 

He pushed himself a little bit further before grabbing the paper and withdraw it gently, then the roller started to move again, slowly, finally awaking before a short nap; he could hear Publisher excitement at seeing the green light brightening again. Writer could even felt a sassy hard spank on his ass as a token of gratitude. How childish. The novelist sighed, his nightmare had finished and he was ready to say that he could fix an Offset and also, beat his boss to death. 

And those were his thoughts when realized, that he could not go return back. He tried to get out of the duct, but somehow his chest was unable to exit; unbelievable. 

‘’Hey, get the fuck out of there, I don't trust you for being that long inside on my printer’’ 

‘’I can’t!’’ Writer confessed, wondering if his boss would become human enough to help him ‘’I ́m stuck, please call service’’ 

‘’What!?’’ Publisher laugh was unbearable ‘’No mames, how’s that possible? You are surely stealing pieces of my Nena to take revenge of me. Go the fuck out of there, seriously’’ 

‘’I said, I can not go the fuck out of here, and I need service to help me. Are you a fucking idiot or deaf? Is really hot here, hurry up quindi’’ 

‘’If you were really stuck, you would let me do this?’’ Writer felt a harder spank and rolled his eyes feeling the guilty of his destiny on that job ‘’Holy shit, you are really stuck! or you have a kink with spanking, have you? One more slap to be sure’’ 

He snarled by the hit, but his discomfort only make Publisher laugh louder. 

‘’Ok, Forget it. Once I get out of here you will be death’’ 

‘’Don ́t worry, Owly. I’ll get you out of there’’ 

Publisher knelt lowering his laugh and grab Rick for the hip, he was ready to push him out when a ringtone distracted both from the operation. The sound came up from the pocket of the man stucked, Publisher grab the phone. It was Designer Morty, and his name was written with the emoji of a puppy. 

‘’Is your puta’’ said with quietness ‘’What do I tell him?’’ 

‘’You motherfucker put my cellphone were it was and help me out. You don ́t have to answer him’’ 

‘’As you desire’’ Publisher put a hand over Writer ass to search his pocket on the dark place, but he ended finding the crotch, with a rotten smirk, he press the vibrator cellphone on were he expect, was his dick; stroking the vibration on him as the writer tried to move immediately; failuring. 

‘’What the fuck are you doing? Stop!’’ Writer bite his lower lip, blaming Morty for insist on calling him several times on a row ‘’Fine! Ok! Answer him, tell him that I’m stuck and ask him to call service’’ 

‘’Hola?’’ the vibration stopped, but his body was shivering yet. ‘’No, he’s still trying to catch the paper... Don ́t know.... Don’t care... Oh! Writer says that he’s gonna take a while and you should go home... Dońt cha’ wanna be a mad boy, do you?’’ 

Writer was hiding his face between his hands. Within all his smartness, he could not believe how Publisher managed to be that asshole. The writer opened his eyes wide open, a hand was running over him again, this time, touching his waist and abdomen under his black jacket, as a kind of pacifier while talking. It had to be a joke, he couldn’t do anything when the hand pinched his nipples. 

‘’I don’t care if you don ́t know how to return alone to home, ask your best friend Counter to take you there... No, you cannot wait him here... OK LISTEN KID, IF YOU AIN ́T GOING HOME, I’LL FUCKING SEND EDITOR TO TAKE CARE OF YOU... AND YES, HE IS ALWAYS HORNY’’ 

The call ended with Publisher hand rubbing shameless Writer’s dick. Despite trying to move or actually getting out the duct, he was unable to do anything but pant. The heat inside the printer was boiling his senses, along the weird feeling of being touched without consent. 

‘’Damn Owl, you’re wet already?’’ Publisher principal feature was not wasting time, he grabbed the pants and the boxers and downed them together to free Writer’s member ‘’Wow, love at first sight’’ 

‘’I’ll fucking kill you, porcatroia. I swear if you try- 

But other rough spank cut his warning. By the following seconds, Publisher had his buttocks wide open by grabbing each with his hands. Rick could not hold a moan when he felt the warm tongue run over his privacy; the worse were the comments at the performance, too dirty, too gross, too mexican spanish: indecipherable. The writer blamed himself, he felt his own body betraying him without a deal. 

‘’Ok, please, this is getting weird for both’’ asked Writer, lowly, as not to groan ‘’If you stop now, I’ll bury this memory underground’’ 

‘’No Nene, I’ll bury you my dick; right now’’ 

It was it. 

It was the only warning. Publisher broke his worker ass, reaching far inside him. 

It had been a long time since the last time Writer did anything sexual. Morty was forbidden, and the casual encounters he had previously had before him were with other Ricks, but he was always the one who took the command. Anything but that, not with that pain nor that shame. Not with THAT person. 

Nonetheless, the annoying sensation went gone when Publisher grabbed him from his waist and began giving him fasters blows, once and then hitting his buttocks to snatch him a moan (as the man stucked was trying to hold himself). And if the heat inside the machine was a hell, Writer body was thousands of suns burning together; Publisher knew it, and he was doing his best to shattering his ass. 

‘’Dear Lord, the things I would give in exchange to see your pretty face right now...’’ confessed Publisher, then took the unattended dick on his bare hand and started to milking him mercilessly ‘’I bet you’re extremely pissed and shame. What a delight’’ 

Rick was indeed, but it wasn’t between his thoughts to share his feelings. 

And the grossest scene was just happened. Publisher came inside his body and the novelist could felt his dignity drain over his legs along the hot white seed, when his boss removed his satisfied cock out of him. Not to mention that Writer couldn’t finished even, his dick was still hard and he was sweating so hard for the uncertain silence of the leader. He was so embarrassed to ask if he left the room, none could be that asshole, could be? 

Of course, and beyond. 

The sound of a shooting picture was his only response. Rick felt the urge to died as he felt Publisher raising his leg to have a better angle to his pictures. If any god exists, not even him would know if he was posting the pictures already. Writer tried to kick him, but, with his legs that weak and the strong arm of publisher carrying him, he could do anything but run his hands over his hair, desperately. 

He could die of heat? The machine was driving him crazy, and his painful erection was surely still on. 

‘’You’re cute after all, Owly’’ 

‘’I hate you so much’’ cried clearing the sweat of his forehead ‘’You ́re a dead man’’ 

‘’Sure I am, but you can always visit my grave’’ 

Writer rick felt again the rough hands of his (probably ex) boss on his waist, stroking him gently but then pressing him so hard to push him out; Writer wasn ́t ready and that unexpected exit hurted him on the upper body; he was quivering yet but pretending to don ́t be afraid; or being buried on shame. 

The man with greenish hair grabbed him for the hair on his nape, making him raise his face to him and forcing him to look at each other. The bastard had kept his sunglasses on, Writer felt way more offended, it would be the last of his issues, but his mind could not run correctly for any longer. He was dizzy and injured. Publisher kissed him rudely, bringing him a clue of how authority tasted like. 

‘’A-Are you done?’’ panted the novelist hiding a moan when Publisher bite the soft skin of his neck and began to suck; that was his only answer. 

‘’Buen trabajo, you did it great’’ joked the head of editorial, then he grabbed the boner of the Writer again, feeling how his whole body tensed again and staring at his blushed face to don’t miss any reaction ‘’You want me to finish mine?’’ 

**NO.**

**NO.**

**NO.**

**_Ricksigner97:_ ** _ THOUSAND TIMES NO.  _

**_Fuckinator3000:_ ** _ Why non? Is a easy.task. Hehe  _

**_Ricksigner97:_ ** _ Not gonna make a comic of this. WTF IS WRONG WITH YOU?? didn't you were only into Morty’s?  _

**_Fuckinator3000:_ ** _ As u see, all of us.have zecrets. besides, if i likes only mortis or a god ricksest with mine cowrokers is not.you’re bussyness.  _

**_Ricksigner97:_ ** _ You still owing me your last commission.  _

**_Fuckinator3000:_ ** _ HOMEBOY, U OWE ME.MONEY 4 THAT IDEA. IT GETZ U A LOTS OF.FOLLOWERS. Becuz of mine.idea. Paypal me. my rewards.  _

**_Ricksigner97:_ ** _ Whatever.  _

**_\------YOU CAN NOT LONGER RESPOND THIS CONVERSATION------_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did not imagine that Publisher and Writer could be so popular, and we first wanted to vent this fixation (thanks Yusu).  
> Fuckinator3000, for those who have not understood it, is Editor, who has however managed in his intent to have another commission from the Designer ... :p ( https://twitter.com/Yusurelia/status/1270746582695075841/photo/1 )
> 
> Oh! Editor has also Twitter :p ( https://twitter.com/fuckinator3001 )
> 
> Ps please review if you are enjoying history! More than three people are working on this project and having comments would be the boost it would take :) we draw, write and translate just for you <3 please support us!


	9. Writing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by RickishMorty  
> Illustration by Yusunaby

The inspiration had caught him.

At night, suddenly.

He often happened to get up abruptly, almost sweaty, just because a demon had come to see him at night, waking him up mercilessly.

The demon of inspiration.

There were those who called it Muse.

_Muse my ass._

That of the artist was not a normal life, it was pure creative madness that had to be vented before going crazy. And considering that he wasn't that healthy, maybe he hadn't been good enough to vent it. Maybe he was lazy.

But at night it was different. He often woke up with an erection that went hand in hand with his inspiration.

And lately, it has been happening even more often.

Especially because he was no longer alone.

He turned next to him, with that stupid nerd sleeping beside him. He deeply envied his sleep, so deep, relaxed, as as of someone who during the day had done what he had to and enjoyed his rest.

_He sleeps so deeply just because you exploit him 24 hours a day, asshole._

Rick rubbed his forehead, groping for the glasses on the bedside table and slipping them on as he stood up. He opened his eyes, seeing everything blurred and wrinkling his nose: he took them off, noting that they were Morty's glasses. Fuck, he was blind as a mole. He snorted, putting his own and leaving the room, running after the inspiration that risked disappearing.

He went to the sitting room adjacent to the bedroom, with his erection throbbing in his boxers and the fantasy that begged him to let it out. Rick turned on the light, without result, though: damn it, it was true, they had turned off the power that morning. Publisher was still late with payments: he had invented that Rick hadn't sold a book that month. Bastard liar. How could HE not even sell a single book?

Searching in the dark, Rick managed to find the PC: he opened the screen, repeatedly pressing the power button. Nothing. Black out. He was already imagining Morty's voice: " _Put it in charge, R-Rick"._ Yes. How the fuck do I do with the bill that YOU didn't help pay? You can't keep doing this (free) latchbolt internship at my house without paying at least some expenses.

Yes, was true, he designed pornographic material and resold it and this was the reason why the fridge was always full, but this was not the point.

Rick snorted, annoyed, before taking the last sheet on the table, managing to find a pen next to the computer. He began to write, without being able to finish even one word: dead. He grunted, finding another pen and pressing hard on the paper: same result. Rick began to scribble violently on the white sheet, in an attempt to resurrect the pen, ending up tearing it.

"Fuck it," he said, throwing it against the wall.

That stupid kid. It was his fault, by dint of drawing cocks, he had emptied all his home pens.

No pc, no sheets, no pens, not even a fucking pencil.

Rick went into the room, furious, with ideas that were beginning to fade in his head faster and faster, replaced by a severe headache. The erection, however, was long gone.

He would wake him up by knocking him out of bed, venting the frustration of the lack of creative outlet on him. He would make him start his shift at four in the morning, making him slave twice as much as usual. By dint of drawing penises his hand would have fallen.

Rick entered the room, furious, ready to scream at the top of his lungs and throw him out of bed. He stopped at the last second, as if electrocuted.

The moonlight came from the shutters, barely illuminating the boy who continued to sleep deeply, tired. One hand was close to his mouth, his palm still dirty with ink; he had to hold his pen strangely to get so stained. On his nose he had the sign of glasses; maybe he had to buy him a new pair, they seemed to have a too heavy frame.

His skin was very clear and with the moon even more. It looked like milk; it was very different from Rick's. His was dull, gray, pale. Morty's was clear, smooth and white. Like…

Like a sheet.

Rick's eyes widened, opening his mouth in a gasp of surprise: inspiration, as well as his erection, returned immediately. Rick finally had a space to fill, skin as thin as paper to stain, where to vent what he had on his head.

A sudden thought disturbed that enchantment: fuck, he didn't have a pen!

Again, he refrained from waking him up screaming, frustrated as only artists can be. The designer was saved at the last by a glitter coming from the bedside table: it was one of those extremely liquid pens, Rick's favorite genre.

The man sat next to the boy, removing the pen cap and uncovering a hip of the Designer with his hand, as if in a caress. Morty moaned in his sleep, narrowing his eyes and curling his lips, annoyed like a child who was disturbed while he slept. The writer ran a finger on his hip, seeing goose bumps forming which made him seem more and more like the sheets of an old, virgin and precious notebook.

Rick pressed the tip of the pen to his skin, which drank the ink like a clean sheet. However, he didn't get the writer's block or the white paper phobia: he began to let go a stream of words on that clear body, which reacted to his touch, unaware. Morty's moans were a strange combination of annoyance and pleasure, halfway between accepting a caress and suffering tickling. In any case, he wouldn't be interested: writing on him was setting him on fire, giving him more words than his head could hold and that went faster than he could write.

"... Mmh? R-Rick? "

“Shhh, shut up, Morty, shut up. You will stop the flow. "

"F-flow? R-Rick what are you sa-mmf! "

The writer closed his mouth, trying desperately not to lose the thread of the words he was bringing back on that slender body. He didn’t even notice the painful and moist erection in his pants, too busy exploiting that Muse who whispered ruthlessly in his ear. He grunted: that abrupt movement had made the ink words on his skin drool. He left Morty's mouth, pulling on the flesh for more room to write on him.

Morty stood still, trying to just raise his face to look at what his roommate, colleague, and whatever those two were, was doing. Even without glasses and despite being blind as a mole, he managed to understand what the writer was up to. But the reason was impossible to guess.

"A-are you drunk?"

“Why do you always ask me that? Shhh! "

Rick no longer had space on Morty's chest and hips. He jerked down his pajama pants; the boy didn't even wear boxers underneath. The designer let out a gasp of surprise, covering his eyes with embarrassment; if it hadn't been night he was sure he would have seen him blush.

"R-Rick !! Rick, what the hell- "

“The Muse talks to me, Morty. The Muse is fucking my brain, baby. But she is not a Muse. She's not a Muse, she's a fucking d-demon, Morty. A Muse would be too gay. "

Morty looked at him with wide eyes, shivering with embarrassment and also with a little fear. The truth was that he was ashamed to death; Rick probably hadn't even noticed, but his face was very close to an erection beginning that he had revealed by lowering his pajamas. That and his hands on him, which printed on him the words he would never stop reading.

Morty loved every book, every story, every novel. He had the first edition of all his publications and the idea of being working for him, although underpaid, exploited and bullied, was wonderful. Waking up suddenly, with his hands on him that were making him his new book, was even more than that. It was exciting, it was too much.

As he wondered if he was still dreaming, he realized that he wouldn't last long.

"R-Rick ... Rick, I-I ..."

“Are you deaf? I said shut up! "

"But I can't do it!"

Rick didn’t take his eyes off his body, continuing to write an entire paragraph on his thigh, tickling his groin with the tip of the pen.

"Do what? Shut up?! "

"N-no, Rick!" the boy closed his eyes, clenching his fists, while Rick finally turned to him and paid attention to his erection. Morty was so excited that the pre-cum covered his whole shaft, coming out of the swollen cockhead and going down to his belly... drooling all the words that Rick had written on him.

"NO!"

Rick took the blanket, dabbing Morty's skin gently, trying to absorb the boy's moods by saving his sentences. No way; the ink now formed a confused and sticky mix together with the boy's cum.

Morty still had his hands on his face, terrified of his reaction: he tried to bring his legs to his chest to cover his erection, without success. Rick was still above him, trying to save the situation, preventing him from moving.

The designer watched him stand still, watching the ink fade on his belly.

"I-I'm sorry, Rick... I-I..."

“You are a slut, Morty. A hypersensitive, diaphanous slut. Now get up, I have to take pictures of you. "

Rick got out of bed, starting to rummage in a drawer, hurried and annoyed. Morty's heart was pounding as he sat on the edge of the bed, barely covering himself with the sheets.

"P-pictures?"

"DON’T DROP THE SHEETS ON YOU, YOU’RE MAKING IT EVEN WORSE!"

Rick tore the sheets from his hands, uncovering him again and grabbing his wrist, yanking him to his feet. The boy hugged, trying not to rub further the areas of his body written in pen. If he already felt naked normally before his gaze, so it was unsustainable.

Rick put the camera in front of his eyes, looking at him with a grimace and half eyelids lowered: it was his usual look when Morty handed him a folder of new graphics and layouts, which he sent back with a thousand notes. They were always fine, actually, but it wasn’t bad to see those pouting lips, that confusion in his gaze, to then have an excuse to receive him again with his corrections.

"Next time…"

The flash shot up.

"... buy back the sheets."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Mothernyckers!!  
> This was the first chapter that we ever wrote, like two months ago... So weird to have it finally out!! (In fact is very short, but we will post the following sooner than usual)  
> We hope you're liking the story and our characters <3  
> Let us know your opinions in the comments!!


	10. Taking a Shower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by Lilium125  
> Illustration by Yusunaby
> 
> As always, forgive us for any language mistakes. We don't have any beta readers and we're two italians and a mexican!! :p

Designer Morty was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, naked and cold. He had placed his smartphone face down on the sink, so that he shed some light with the torch because he and Rick had not paid the last electricity bill.

He looked dazedly at the specks of dust that danced in the beam of light that expanded on the ceiling, waiting for the water to warm up to take a shower and remove all the ink imprinted on his skin. And it was thanks to that ink that he was sure that it wasn't all a dream.

He hid his face in his hands, embarrassed. He still couldn't believe what had just happened. He had fixed on Rick's concentrated and somewhat crazy expression as he wrote an entire chapter on him.

“ _The Muse talks to me, Morty. The Muse is fucking my brain,_ _baby_ _. But she is not a Muse. She's not a Muse, she's a fucking d-demon, Morty. A Muse would be too gay_ ".

It had a shiver.

Rick had literally made Morty his book, exactly like the ones he jealously kept in his library, read a thousand times, but still perfectly intact, as if they were new.

He looked at his body. He had written everywhere, many of which were smudged and now illegible – especially those on his thighs – but some sentences were still intact. He would have them tattooed forever on the skin if he could, erasing them was like committing a crime.

The steam began to come out of the tub, wrapping it with its moist heat, so he took off his fogging glasses and left them on the sink next to his cell phone, then went into the shower and tried to relax under the jet of hot water. He couldn't help feeling deeply ashamed, since Rick had seen him in that state, so excited and wet as a virgin…

“ _You are a_ _slut_ _, Morty. A hypersensitive, diaphanous slut. Now get up, I have to take pictures of you_ ".

He took the sponge and showered it with bubble bath, rubbing his arms and legs vigorously.

Those photos… how long would Rick keep them? How many times would he have looked at them, examining them critically to read the words written on his fair skin?

He was shaken by a thrill of excitement, followed immediately by another wave of shame. Rick, his idol, the best writer on the square, had his photos naked.

He fidgeted so much that the foam ran into his eyes.

He didn't have to think about it or rather than look at Rick, he would have drowned himself in the tub.

He continued to wash and as much as he soaped himself and rubbed himself with the sponge, with that little light and without glasses he could not understand if the ink was erasing or not.

He snorted, rubbing so hard that it hurt. He would have had his skin red and irritated for days ... In reality he would have gladly waited until it was morning to wash away those writings, but Rick hadn't wanted to hear reasons.

“ _You have already stained MY sheets, go to wash yourself and do not touch anything or you will dirty anything else_ ”.

And like an idiot he apologized to him and proposed to buy back the sheets, as if it were his fault and not the mad maniac writer who had stripped him while he slept to write on him, with those big hands, the tip of that pen that he was sliding fast on his body, his face so close that he could feel his warm breath on him ...

The bathroom door suddenly swung open, frightening Designer Morty who jumped and slipped into the tub, ending up sitting on the porcelain.

Rick had entered the bathroom, waving his hand in front of his face to chase away the steam that filled the room.

« What the fuck are you doing? You have been in the shower for an hour, you nerd. Can't you even wash yourself? ».

Morty couldn't help thanking that cloud of steam and the fact that they hadn't paid their bills, so Rick couldn't see him still naked, embarrassed and shamefully excited.

He quickly turned his back on the writer to hide his guilt, hugging himself, but he found himself pointed at the beam of light of his cell phone, which was reflected on the tiles of the shower.

He could see the light moving from top to bottom, a sign that Rick was watching him, and although the hot water hit him straight on the back, he got goosebumps.

If being photographed naked had been embarrassing, this was even worse.

He felt Rick's eyes inspect him and looking down, now that the light hit him in full, he could realize that the ink had faded, but it was still perfectly imprinted on his skin. Indeed, melting had stained him even more.

Rick put his cell phone back on the sink, so that the light pointed to the ceiling.

Despite the running water, Morty heard the writer snort and shortly after he saw his hand appear at his side with the palm facing upwards, the sleeve of the shirt was rolled at elbow height.

« Give me the sponge, Morty ».

Morty nearly slipped again.

« W-what? ».

« Just give it to me ».

« N-no, Rick, I c-can do it on my own, you d-don't need to- ».

The writer grabbed the boy's arm with a secure, but not strong, grip, loosening the embrace with which Morty was trying to cover himself. The designer initially resisted, but Rick's grip tightened in a clear warning, so he gave in and passed him the sponge.

The man took it without leaving the boy's arm, which he pulled towards him by the wrist, starting to rub the skin carefully, slowly.

Morty continued to turn his back on him, although that position was very uncomfortable, but his erection was still there, not at all willing to go away. And how could the excitement have passed with Rick passing the sponge over his body? He felt it slip on his arm, on his shoulders, behind his back... it seemed that the writer did not miss even an inch of skin. It was really too much for him.

« Turn around ».

Morty sighed of surprise, but Rick had already grabbed him by the arms with both hands to force him to turn to him. The designer's first reaction was to bring his hands to cover his hard dick, squeezing his legs and keeping his face low in shame. Blind as a mole he could only see the black silhouette of Rick who was kneeling just outside the tub, the steam created around the man a strange play of lights with the flashlight of his cell phone.

Rick squeezed the sponge, filled it again with shower gel and started to pass it over Morty's legs with the same slow movements, applying light pressure. With the other hand he moved those of Morty who were cover his dick.

« Don't be a gay jerk, I've seen it before ».

« N-no, Rick, is that… », but he could not continue the sentence, because Rick was running the towel over his belly and he had almost touched his penis. Morty took a breath. He hadn't touched him, he was sure of it, yet the dick jumped traitor. A snort from the writer made him realize that his reaction had not gone unnoticed.

Morty closed his eyes and it happened again.

The sponge slipped on his belly, Rick passed it with circular movements at the height of his navel and then he went down, very close to the boy's throbbing cock, and went back up, as if nothing had happened.

He was doing it on purpose.

Morty widened his eyes, because keeping them closed was leading him to create strange fantasies. Whenever Rick's hand drew dangerously - and more and more - to his private parts, it was increasingly difficult for the designer to hold back a groan of frustration.

Several times he had had the impulse to move, perhaps with the excuse of sliding into the water, to finally feel that contact. He was grateful that he was wet, because his precum mingled with the foam, avoiding him further humiliation.

Rick continued mercilessly, with movements so slow as to be maddening, almost provocative. Morty was dazed, at the total mercy of the man, so much so that he had not noticed that Rick had let go of the sponge, lathering him with his rough hands, passing them on his chest, on his neck. He did not even notice that he had closed his eyes again, sighing softly under that touch, his lips slightly parted.

The writer pulled him to himself, leaning over the careless tub of clothes that got wet under the jet of water, wrapping his arms around the boy's body to caress his back.

Although the man was on his knees, he still came to the boy's chest, who let out a shaky sigh when Rick's hands began to go down more and more, tickling him with the tips of his fingers and causing Morty to shiver with pleasure, untill they didn't reach the bottom. Her hands tightened on the designer's buttocks who flinched, as if exiting a kind of trance, finding Rick's face very close and risking really slipping.

His hands continued to slide down his thighs, until Rick lowered himself between Morty's legs, who held his breath noisily when the writer's face passed very close to his hard and wet dick. He couldn't tell if he had more blood concentrated on his face or between his legs.

« R-Rick », he gasped breathlessly and painfully excited. He felt stupid when Rick stood up with the sponge in his hand again, waving it under his nose. In the dark and without glasses he couldn't see his expression, but he was sure he had painted that cheeky smile on his face.

« The sponge fell down ».

Rick placed it on the edge of the tub and reached out to close the water, putting an end to that contact and that strange situation, leaving the boy speechless and breathless. He grabbed a towel from the hook near the sink and wrapped Morty's body to dry it, slowly dabbing the skin.

« Rick, I-I can do it myself… ah! ».

Rick's hand tightened around his erection wrapped in the towel, just squeezing and moving it up and down. Morty risked coming, excited and sensitive as he was, and bit his lips to keep from escaping other groans. He did not have time to protest, because the writer stopped touching him, rubbing the towel over the rest of the body as if nothing had happened.

« Well, now you're dry », He wrapped it again in his arms, continuing to rub the towel behind his back, and bringing his face close to the hollow of his neck. He put his lips on the boy's soft skin and sucked slowly, as if he was tasting it. This time Morty couldn't hold back a sigh of pleasure and he got goosebumps.

« Dry and clean », Rick concluded with his deep tone, which vibrated in the designer's chest. Rick moved away from him, starting to undress, leaving his wet shirt on the bathroom floor.

Shirtless he looked at Morty, who had been stunned in the tub wrapped in the towel like a child.

« So? Come out it's my turn ».

Morty winced and left the tub, grabbing his glasses from the sink and putting them on. He would have left his cell phone on the sink so Rick can take a shower, he didn't want to leave him in the dark…

Before leaving the bathroom, he glanced one last time at the writer, who was unbuttoning his pants. The latter looked at him with a crooked smile and only then did Morty notice that he was tremendously horny too.

« You go to sleep, I will take a while ».


	11. Conveign

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by RickishMorty  
> Illustration by Yusunaby

The thing that pissed him off the most was his fake face. His claim not to understand what was the problem that had pissed him off so much.

Publisher knew perfectly well what it was.

"I don't understand you. Once I try to do a nice thing..."

"A nice ... thing? To whom, exactly?"

"It is not my fault that at these conferences they only accept Ricks accompanied by Mortys and if your stupid designer is the only boy from Stuttering".

"Oh, how long have you noticed he works here? Since now that you need him?"

"Hey, trust me, this fucking trip as a couple sucks me more."

"Yes, I see you pained."

Publisher smiled, shrugging: "What do you want, you know I'm a positive guy... Better to look at the glass half full, isn't it ? I go to the meeting and the brat can enjoy a ride out of your obsessive clutches".

"Don't start."

"To do what? At least his little ass can recover a little."

"Stop that".

"Oh sorry, did I touch a nerve? It's not my fault if you’re paranoic about your fucking moral principles. I don't understand why you don't just fuck him. "

"I don't think you understand a shit in general."

The conversation had been more or less like this, before Morty arrived and Publisher disappeared into the portal, without even looking at him. That bastard had tricked Rick, leaving on the hottest days for him, when he had a very tight deadline and could not keep an eye on him as he wanted.

Writer had breathed deeply, kneeling in front of the designer and looking him seriously in the eyes.

"As soon as that jerk tries to do some bullshit of his, like selling you or abandoning you somewhere, you call me."

"S-selling me?"

"Don't do things you don't want to do, even if he forces you, and try to stay in the room for as long as possible. Is that clear? Only accompany him to the fucking meetings, then run in your room and lock you up."

"D-don’t worry, R-Rick, I-I don't think Publisher will even notice if I-I'm there or n-no.".

Well, that didn't stand in his favor. He could not leave him alone in the midst of an interplanetary convention of stock trading. As "yellow shirts", the Mortys had also been requested together with the Ricks, for a level playing field. He would have gone, but obviously he was not the most "affable" in the negotiations. Neither Editor the smartest. Or Counter the most convincing. It was clear that Publisher was the only possible choice, just like Designer.

Morty smiled at him, serene and encouraging, while Writer sighed, grim and annoyed.

"Be careful" Rick stood up, putting his hands in his pockets. If he still had them free, he would surely have touched him in some way. A hug was too much.

Morty nodded, before turning to the still open portal.

"And come back soon."

Morty stopped, turning to him, a little surprised, with his big eyes looking at him behind the lenses. Rick covered up, arching his unibrow sternly.

"There is a lot of work to be done."

Morty seemed almost heartened by that response, as if things had returned to normal, manageable and predictable. He raised his hand, greeting him, before disappearing behind the green portal.

As he predicted, Morty was totally ignored by Publisher: the Rick did not look at him, did not speak to him, did not even hold the door to let him pass, letting it get in his face.

While all the other Mortys were literally glued to their Ricks, the two of them were totally separate and Designer would have sworn that Publisher would have made much larger walks on purpose, to distance him. By the time they got to the reception, Morty was out of breath.

"Stuttering Books. I had two separate reservations."

Morty looked around, seeing not only the various Ricks and Mortys, but many other aliens grazing in the hall, chatting among themselves. That was an event where everyone could bring their own business or company, trying to place it on the interstellar market and listing it: Publisher was also nervous because he had hoped that Miami would become their majority shareholder. That and something else.

The distraction lasted too long, because when Morty turned, Publisher was already far away and a key was left on the reception desk. Morty grabbed it, then ran to the head of Stuttering, who had stuck himself in the elevator. As the doors closed, Publisher looked at him in disgust: "In the lobby at 4pm." Morty didn't have time to stop them, that the elevator had already left. He sighed, calling him back and trying to understand at least which floor he should go to, with the backpack starting to weigh on his shoulders.

Publisher had been clear, or at least his text message had been crystal clear and glacial:

**In the closet you find a tuxedo, delayed measure. Comb your hair and of course take that idiot boy's hat off. A Morty already sucks. A gay and nerdy Morty is too much.**

As he waited for him in the hall, he felt dirty: a small gray tuxedo, with his shirt slipping into his trousers, held still by his belt. Very tight brown moccasins, which were driving him crazy. Morty sighed, before looking up and seeing black sunglasses being brought to him.

"Put them on."

Looking up, Morty saw Publisher, who had replaced his usual green jacket with a black one, much more sober. They were dressed alike, although his clothes were branded from head to toe and showcased his toned and sporty physique.

The moment Morty took the glasses, Publisher immediately withdrew his hand, disgusted that he could touch him. The boy looked at him badly and put them on, uncertain, not feeling at all comfortable with what was the distinctive side of the Boss of Stuttering, but certainly not his.

"Mmh. You look like a jerk. Perfect, let's go."

Publisher started, snapping in front of him without looking at him.

"B-but they a-are not g-graduated, I-I can’t see-"

"And it's my problem because..?"

As they walked to the meeting room, Designer's cell phone rang. The boy grabbed it, feeling a dip in the heart the moment he saw Rick's name on the screen, followed by an owl emoticon.

"He-hello? E-hey R-Rick, hi! Y-yeah-all right, we-we're going to the c-conference room. Uh? N-no, it’s a-all fine, r-reall- "

Morty could not finish the sentence, that Publisher took the phone from his fingers, always careful not to touch them.

"What's up, don't you trust your babysitter?"

"You should psychoanalyze your sadism, it starts to get harassing ..."

"Oh my God, take two fucking days off! Go on maternity leave, I don't know, do something, you're becoming obsessive ..."

"Could you give him back the phone before I really pissed myself off?"

"We are entering the conference ... But don't worry, I'll take care of the little one ..."

Publisher grinned and was sure Writer knew the expression on his face.

"And the GPS you put on him ... Well, let's just say it's defective."

"I'm coming to kick your fucking a-"

The man attacked, throwing the cell phone to Morty and entering the room with him, with a sigh.

"My God, that man needs a fuck."

Designer blushed at those words so explicit towards Rick, lowering his face, trying not to lose sight of Publisher, however: he was blind as a mole and if he had lost sight of him it would not have been easy to find him.

The two slipped into small armchairs, while the Boss crossed his legs, crossing his hands above the knee, mainly to distance himself as much as possible from the collaborator.

“This is the fault of that WriterMorty92, that motherfucker… damn fucking activist. If it weren't for him, Mortys wouldn't have all these rights lately”. Publisher said it through gritted teeth, furious, masking the poisonous words with an affable smile that he addressed to others present that he seemed to know. Morty frowned: he knew very well that nickname very well and for years he had followed the essays and treatises of that pseudonym of a Morty, which analyzed the complex relationship between the Ricks and the Mortys, with all their codependencies, abuses and the sexual implications. It was thanks to him if the Mortys had been able to vote in the last Citadel elections and if one of them had even been able to stand as President. Nobody, however, expected that he could win.

That too was something Publisher complained a lot about.

"Make yourself comfortable, our speech will be in two hours..." Publisher put his hands behind his head, "... and thank me, with these sunglasses you can spend them sleeping."

Morty held back a smirk before concentrating on the stage: knowing himself he would have drunk every single word of those present, intrigued by everything. And to be distracted by the idea of having to speak in front of all those people.

When their time finally came, Morty was literally quivering, while Publisher had quietly had a long sleep, regardless of the fact that the neighbors coughed every time he snored. As they went on stage, Publisher hissed at him badly not to stammer too much. They could not be more different: while Publisher greeted the crowd like a Hollywood star on the red carpet, Morty walked hunched, jerky, with a low look and red cheeks. Those clothes didn't help, not making him comfortable at all.

Morty heared practically nothing about Publisher's intervention, too busy repeating to himself the false and politically correct words that he had made him memorize, all focused on how inclusive and respectful the Stuttering Books was, also respecting the rights of the "Mortys", how they were talking about a protected or disabled class. By the time Publisher finished his rambling, confident and convincing, Designer was by no means ready.

"... and now the word to my talented collaborator, cornerstone of Stuttering Books: Designer Morty!"

Publisher elegantly stepped aside with a smirk, spreading his arm as he presented him, as he went to the microphone, far too high for him. Designer tried to fix it, feeling like Counter for the way he began to sweat, feeling the eyes of everyone, including those of Publisher, who did absolutely nothing to help him, enjoying that pathetic show with his arms crossed.

Finally, Morty managed to fix the auction with the help of a technician, thanking him with a sharp stammer. He started talking, praying that those five minutes would end soon.

"The S-Stuttering Books is a very-inclusive r-reality, which allows e-everyone to e-enter within their d-"

"I'd like to enter inside you!"

A voice rose from the crowd and both Publisher and Morty could swear it was the voice of one of the Ricks present. The designer blushed conspicuously, seeing the lenses of the sunglasses mist up: that, the lenses so dark in a closed place and his myopia, officially made him blind. Morty looked the Boss and Publisher rolled his eyes, as if to say to go ahead and not break his balls. The boy took a deep breath before continuing.

"... their dynamics. Publishing is a f-field that does not cease to be i-important e-even now t-that- "

"But who fucking cares about publishing?"

A background giggle stirred the entire hall and Morty felt his legs tremble: ok, he wasn't made for the stage and he certainly had no shoulder to count on. If Writer had been there he would have…

"YOUR MOTHER FUCKING CARES ABOUT IT!"

A stunned silence descended on all those present, while Morty turned displaced towards Publisher, who had shouted like an obsessed, restoring total silence. They could touch his collaborators, but not Stuttering Books.

Publisher looked at the crowd, making sure no one saying anything, before crossing his arms again and turning to Morty, with a nod that abruptly invited him to continue.

Strangely, nobody interrupted him anymore, until the end of that stammering monologue.

Publisher was born for public relations. At the aperitif that followed the conference, he started talking with five different alien races, convincing them all to invest a good amount (not exorbitant, but considerable for the company's expenses) on Stuttering Books. Morty was there, being the arm candy without saying a word, but following the reasoning and the unspoken words behind Publisher's negotiations. Surely, the head of the publishing house was a nice school from which to learn in relating to others.

It also seemed to him that Publisher looked at him with more indulgence, almost affectionately, sometimes putting him in the middle of the speeches and congratulating him in front of the eligible customers, spending himself in flattery towards the excellent purchase that Designer had been for the publishing house.

"This guy has talent, that’s for sure."

In a selfie that Publisher took with the shareholders, including Designer, posting it on Rickstagram and obviously triggering Writer's answers: "Where the fuck did you leave Designer?" - "It's him, you idiot" - "... What the fuck did you put on him?"

Morty felt almost lighter, beaming as he walked away from the lobby with his belly full of appetizers and his heart full of compliments. He looked at Publisher, who had printed a satisfied smile on his face, reevaluating him in some way for the kindness he had shown towards him in front of the others.

"Thank you very much for what you said about my work."

Immediately, the Rick's smile cleared, as he looked again in disgust at Morty, who petrified himself.

"What the fuck are you talking about? Didn't you believe those bullshits? "

Morty blinked several times before the elevator opened in front of them and they both went inside. Morty advanced, mechanic, being pushed out of Publisher, who looked at him before the doors closed.

"You Mortys are so fucking stupid."

"Well? What has happened? Are you OK? What did he do to you? "

Morty on the bed heard Rick's voice on the phone, much more apprehensive than he had ever heard it. He smiled secretly, thanking that Rick could not see at that moment that almost selfish expression, pampered by his concern.

Rick was worried about him.

“Y-yes, Rick, a-all right. I mean, you know what P-Publisher is like, but nothing serious happened."

"What do you mean, _what_ _Publisher_ _is like_ _?_ What did he do? Did he humiliate you? Did he try to trade you for some action? Did he lock you in the room? You are in different rooms, aren't you? "

"Y-yes, he’s in the one next to m-mine i think, I-I'm not-"

"DO YOU WANT TO SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTHS, YOU ASSHOLES?!"

A few punches slammed against the wall and the voice of the Stuttering Boss confirmed the hints of Designer: Publisher was right in the door next to his.

“Is that the asshole? Is him there?"

Morty slipped under the sheets, completely covering his face, in the hope of muffling the noises and lowering his voice.

"N-no, it's in the next one, b-but I think he can hear us."

“It's 10 pm and is he already in his room? He is doing it on purpose. He would never go to sleep at this time. "

Morty laughed softly and a small moment of silence fell between the two; it was embarrassing, but pleasantly. At least for Designer. He had no idea how Rick dealt with those feelings and that discomfort; the discomfort of not being able to say what he really thought. That he was worried, that perhaps he was missing him.

Designer bit his lips, deciding to break it: "How are you? How's it going there? "

"Usual. In two days I have the deadline, Counter is going crazy to think about how much this trip is costing and Editor ... well, let's say that since you are not there, he is being distracted on PornRick for most of the working hours ".

"Ugh ..." Morty pursed his lips and Rick chuckled, in his low voice, made even more hoarse by the phone. It was that that made him blush, making him swallow simultaneously.

"You’ll come back at 4 tomorrow, don't you?" he knew perfectly well that it was true. He was counting the seconds.

Morty nodded, "Yes, I think Publisher will leave me at Stuttering with the portalgun."

"Yes, of course he will never take you home."

Morty laughed again, before yawning and Rick almost shook himself out of a thought.

"Go to sleep. See you tomorrow".

Morty cursed that yawn; he would go on talking all night. It was rare to talk to Rick in that precise way; they talked a lot, about work, about ideas, in general. But little so intimately, on a personal level. And feeling him apprehensive, stamped an idiotic smile on his face that did not decide to leave.

"O-ok, R-Rick ... Thank you very much for calling. Goo-goodnight ... "

"..."

"... R-Rick?"

"... Goodnight, Morty."

Rick hung up the phone and Morty stared at the screen where his name was written, until the home page reappeared. He got out of the sheets, charging the phone and turning off the light.

If he hadn't been so tired, he wouldn't have been able to sleep right after that call.

Publisher was attached to the wall with his back, his arms crossed between them and a malevolent and annoyed expression on his face. Fuck, those two made him sick. All that chatty-chat in a low voice, like a pair of lovebirds saying goodnight.

Disgusting.

He chewed gum nervously, staring at the wall in front of him: he had to go downstairs; he had an appointment with one of the Ricks he met at the conference, who was also very pleased with his difficult tastes. He would have been a good way to end the day. That, or find the Rick who had screamed at the convention, kicking him in the ass or fucking him hard until he apologized.

He sighed loudly: they had ruined his mood. He no longer had any incentive to go downstairs. And he had to win him back.

Publisher grabbed the portalgun, opening a passage directly into the Designer room and entering immediately, so as not to wake him up with the green and intense light of the portal. He stared at the boy in bed, disgusted, but envying the sweet sleep of the righteous, who had no thoughts that kept them awake all night.

Now it was his turn to have fun: Publisher pulled out his cell phone, with a dangerous grin, while simultaneously taking Designer's one. With his own, he opened the camera by inserting the flash, taking a photo of the sleeping boy. Satisfied with the result, he sent it to Ricktsapp, in a group called "SB's Mothernyckers".

Chuckling to himself, he returned to his room again, with Designer's cell phone. He made himself comfortable on the bed again, waiting for the fish to catch the hook.

Editor sent back the photo of his cock, asking him to show it to him and starting to record an audio, while Counter greeted Designer in the group, wishing him a good night.

Publisher rolled his eyes, cursing that old stupid grandpa and writing in reply: "How many times do we have to tell you that he's not here in the group?"

Finally, the notification of Ricktsapp went completely blue: bingo.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Just as in his predictions, Designer's cell phone started ringing and Publisher cleared his throat to hold back a laugh.

"Qué onda papito, qué quieres?"

"I'll break your ass."

“Oh, yes, please...”

“Don’t dare”.

"Oh, do you want to talk to your little puta? I left him destroyed, but if you want some sex-talking I'm available ... "

"I'll break your face".

"You like rough sex, uh?"

"What are you doing?"

"Now I'm recovering, you?"

"I'm coming to split your face."

“Do you know that you should REALLY have a good fuck? You start to worry me... "

“Give him back the phone and get it over with. Didn't you pick up anyone today to ruin the night? You’re starting to lose it... "

"Papi, you know I prefer to talk to you to any other Rick..." Publisher grinned, aware that he was shaking a bomb ready to explode; "Don’t be jealous".

Rick hang out; he must have been forced to do so in order not to play his game. He knew very well that Publisher would not touch a Morty even with a finger, even if it meant pissing him off to death. Publisher chuckled again, opening the group and seeing that Editor was still recording. He replied to the photo of his cock, arching a corner of his mouth trying not to look at it too much: "Mine was enough for him, but thanks."

As he left the room for the bar, he finally received Editor's audio: fifteen minutes of fapping noises and gasps in which he did nothing but masturbate. A notification appeared soon after: _Writer Rick left the group._

The next day, Morty was late, wasting time looking for his cell phone: he overturned the whole room to find it, but nothing. It was gone. After packing, he went to breakfast alone, without his inseparable hat, which he had decided not to wear in order not to upset his superior. He was joined at 11 by Publisher, who wore sunglasses and was completely disheveled, prey to a nightmare hangover, in which the slightest noise annoyed him. He communicated with grunts, as if he were one of those VIPs in rehab that the day before partied hard even though they knew they didn't have to do it. Designer helped him, pitied, taking everything he could from the buffet and placing it in front of him. The only thanks of the Rick was to put his cell phone in front of him, giving it back. When Morty, amazed, tried to ask for explanations, he silenced him, with the excuse of a headache.

The "holiday" had ended there, they would have returned a few hours earlier, sparing themselves from breaking their balls at the final ceremony that greeted everyone, giving an appointment for the new year. In public relations, Publisher had already given: it could have been enough.

After a silent breakfast, Publisher drank his cappuccino, thoughtful, looking at the boy in front of him, who looked at him hesitantly, as if he didn't know if he could help him in any other way.

“NEver seen a hangover? Does the Nobel Prize in Literature ever get drunk like this? "

Morty knew perfectly well that he was referring to Writer, but he didn't give in to the provocation in any way, just by looking down. Publisher looked at him better, raising his unibrow.

"What about the hat?"

Designer looked up, amazed by the request that pointed out that Publisher was actually "looking at" him. He touched his own hair, as if also reasoning that he wasn't wearing it.

"Oh ... It's just that m-maybe it's a little bit childish."

"Fuck, no," nodded Publisher, still holding the cup in his hand. "It's fucking hell childish."

He smiled, but it wasn't a mocking smile for once; he seemed genuinely amused, and perhaps even a little surprised. Morty smiled in turn, embarrassed, returning to look down in not knowing what to say.

The Stuttering Boss rose to his feet, stretching and yawning, cracking all the joints: Morty had no idea what he had been doing all night, but honestly now he didn't envy him at all.

"Are you done?"

Morty nodded, surprised at the concerned question about if he had finished breakfast. He stood up too, while Publisher fired a portal in front of them, rubbing his temple with a headache. He looked at him before entering.

“Come on, I'm taking you back to Papi. He will be in abstinence ... "

Designer did not reply, blushing, crossing the passage immediately after him.

The welcome team was not the best, considering that Counter had to immediately put himself between an angry Writer and an annoyed Publisher in hangover, while Editor asked Morty if he liked the photos and if he had listened to an audio he didn't have the faintest idea.

"R-Rick! I-I told you I-I'm fine! "

Morty looked at Writer, who kept turning him over in every way, checking that he had no strange signs. The writer headed for the suitcase, emptying it and immediately throwing everything away to wash. He briefly dwelled on the clothes Publisher had given him, looking at them in disgust and throwing them in the bin directly. Then he took Morty's hat in his hand, holding it out to him.

"Why didn't you put it on?"

“’cause it's childish."

Writer rolled his eyes, immediately letting go of his clothes and going towards him, kneeling in front of him to look into his eyes and taking his shoulders, just shaking him.

"Morty, what the fuck are you saying ?? Are you OK?"

Designer nodded, before Rick took him, putting him on the bed and continuing to look at him worried.

“Enough, let's throw it all away. I’ll burn everything”.

Morty swallowed, blushing violently the moment Rick began to undress him without even asking for permission and without him being able to argue.

"R-Rick ...!"

Writer didn't even look him in the eye, throwing his shoes further and pulling his pants away, automatically making him cover himself, embarrassed and naked: he knew that he never wore his underwear.

"Rick!"

“Are you sure he didn't do anything to you? He didn't touch you, did he? "

As Morty, naked and burgundy, continued to try to cover himself, Rick lifted his legs, trying to look further down, towards his small opening covered by tight buttocks. Designer gasped in fear, trying to move to avoid that visual and slipping back.

"N-no, R-Rick! I-I swear nothing happened! "

Writer stood up, pursed his lips.

“Go wash, Morty. You smell of jerk. "

The writer walked away, deciding to leave him some privacy, and picking up all those clothes to take with him downstairs. It was not clear whether to wash or burn them. Before leaving, he turned one last time to Designer.

"And never insult that hat again."

The writer left the room, leaving the boy on the bed, naked and cold, with a nascent erection that would have had free rein in the shower.


	12. Watching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by Lilium125  
> Illustration by Yusunaby

This was not his day.

He roamed the streets of the Citadel by motorbike, speeding through the semi-deserted streets of the suburbs at great speed, the roar of the motorbike as the only travel companion.

He was pissed off, very much.

That morning he left the house tired, after a night spent awake because his fucking Musa in those days was not giving him peace, especially at night, when everything was calm and silent. Arriving at work, despite the fatigue, he had to face Publisher, who never missed an opportunity to tease him and make him nervous.

And he hated himself for it, because he hated being teased by him, but he missed him when he didn't.

He accelerated, taking a tight curve and slipping with the rear wheel on the smooth asphalt, without a precise goal, the shiny black helmet that reflected the rays of the artificial sun of the Citadel. He just wanted to escape.

From everything and everyone.

Even from himself.

He had left Stuttering slamming the door, yelling at the Boss that he would continue to work from home, but he still didn't feel like going back to Designer in that way, he didn't want to see his worried eyes while asking him what had happened, so he had taken the longest road, but running at that speed he came in the driveway of the house almost without realizing it.

He parked the motorcycle and took off his helmet, placing it on the saddle and automatically passing a hand through his hair. How had it occurred to him to take the motocycle that morning? Tight in his pants and black leather jacket it was hot, so he decided not to waste time and enter the house, with the intention of diving into the tub and finally trying to relax. He left the keys on the hall furniture, grateful that Designer was upstairs working and that he hadn't come down to greet him, amazed that he had come back earlier. He probably had headphones to listen to music and hadn't noticed his return.

He started to go to the kitchen to get tobacco and papers to get a cigarette, but the door was ajar. Strange, because they never closed that door, but as soon as he put his hand on the handle to open it, a noise caught his attention.

No, it wasn't exactly a noise, it seemed more like a voice.

He pricked up his ears, motionless, and for a few seconds convinced himself that he had dreamed it, but then he heard it again. He opened the door just to spy inside and was immediately seized by the impelling instinct to close it again.

Morty was completely naked on the couch and the voice he had heard was exactly his. He sighed softly as he touched himself and Writer tried not to make any noise as he slowly started closing the door.

Now he was doubly pissed.

Couldn't he shut himself in the bathroom like all normal people? Why the fuck on the couch? Okay, he had come home much earlier than usual, though ...

The boy moaned louder, clearly sure he was alone in the house and Writer hated himself, hated himself wholeheartedly, but couldn't help peeking again. Morty was sitting on his back on the sofa, but Rick could see the boy's reflection from the TV in front of him: he was with his legs open and he was holding something in his fist, holding it close to his face, but Rick could not distinguish what was in the black screen.

No, no, no.

He shouldn't have looked, he shouldn't have listened, he shouldn't have _imagined_.

He walked away from the door, determined to go upstairs to take that relaxing bath, trying to erase the image of the boy masturbating from his mind, but he didn't even go up the first step, which another moan came to his ear, jolting his stomach.

He had to fight himself with all his might to climb another step, but the Designer voice reached him once again.

« _Writer…_ », it was a barely audible whisper, a groan escaped without permission, but Writer could not be wrong: Morty had said his name.

As if in a trance, he went down the only two steps on which he had managed to climb and went back to the ajar door of the kitchen, without being able to control his member who was beginning to harden in his leather pants.

He opened the door a little more, just enough that allowed him to look better inside. He saw reflected in the television the boy who masturbated with his eyes closed, with his lips slightly open, from which groans and sighs came out, accompanied by the humid noise of the small hand that moved up and down.

Writer's conscience began to rebel, but he could not help but continue to look at him, in the hope that he would still say his name, in the selfish confirmation of not being wrong.

He wasn't exactly spying on him, it was just to know... he wasn't a perverted voyeur, but inside he felt a bit like Editor.

He tried to push those thoughts away, starting to convince himself that he was wrong, Morty hadn't really said his name, but the boy put what he was holding in his hand on the arm of the sofa and Rick's cock jumped in his pants.

It was his jacket, the one he always wore, but that he hadn't worn that day because he had gone out on a motorcycle and had worn the leather one. Here's what previously the boy was helding tight in his hand near his face.

Morty was sniffing his jacket as he touched him.

The erection throbbed in need, Writer was starting to get seriously hot in those leather clothes, but he didn't dare take off his jacket so as not to make any noise.

A movement of the boy made him step back, fearing that he might find out while looking at him - he could never have bear the shame - but Morty had only settled better on the couch, raising one leg and inserting an arm under the hollow of the knee to keep it raised , with one hand he masturbated and with the other he gently stroked his own opening, now completely exposed for that new position.

Fuck.

From the reflection on the TV he could see _everything_. Both the hand with which he touched the member, and the small and tapered fingers that Designer first brought to his mouth, sucked them slowly, then let them slip between his legs, moving them slowly in a circular way, without ever penetrating himself.

Writer was unable to look away. He was totally paralyzed, with one hand still tight on the handle and his eyes glued to the boy's hands.

« _Writer_ », he said again and this time it wasn't a whisper. He had said his name again urgently, with need, continuing to touch himself faster, the moans growing louder and louder.

Designer never called him like that, never. Always Boss or at most Rick.

To be called Writer for the first time by the boy, in that way and in that moment, made his cock throbb again in his pants, almost risking to make him come.

Inside he had a war going on, between his reasonable and animal part, that of a Rick.

The first one yelled at him to leave, to let the boy do his thing, listing one by one all his ideals, all his struggles for the rights of the Mortys.

The other one _ordered_ him to come in and own him there on the sofa, giving him what he asked for, satisfying his desire, becoming the cause of those moans of pleasure.

He wanted to hear Morty panting against his ear, to hear his name from those small and red lips, to fill them with his tongue, to feel their flavor once again.

“ _Get in. No. Get in. No. Get in. No. Get in. No._ ”.

« _Writer!_ », Morty's voice was increasingly high and uncontrolled. He had put a finger in his tight and wet opening, touching himself faster and faster, repeating the writer's name as he was close to orgasm, the preseminal liquid that wet his hand with which he masturbated, sliding down on his testicles and on the finger with which he was penetrating himself, increasing pleasure.

Writer had to make a superhuman effort to control himself and finally be able to get away, leaning his back against the wall, right next to the door he was looking at.

He heard him come screaming " _Writer, Writer, Writer!_ ", biting his lips with his eyes closed, allowing himself only a second to touch her very hard member from above black leather pants in a totally useless minimum of relief.

He was happy to have resisted, but tremendously frustrated at not giving in.

Designer's groans slowly subsided and Rick panicked. What should he do now? He couldn't be seen standing there behind the door, but he couldn't leave either, or surely Morty would now hear him turn on the motocycle.

He could only do one thing.

He was sweaty, red-faced and smeared with sperm, as he caught his breath on the sofa.

He wanted to bury himself.

Now that he had come, he was starting to feel all those horrible sensations that follow an orgasm: shame, guilt, desire to disappear from the face of the earth.

Usually he was good at holding back his adolescent instincts, he had also learned to resist every time Writer teased him when he was sitting on him in the office, while they worked. The times he needed to touch himself, he waited for Writer not to be at home or to sleep, so he shut himself in the bathroom, but that day the urge had suddenly taken him, like a grip on the stomach that would not let him go.

He had woken up with an erection that had no intention of leaving for any reason, urgently asked to be satisfied and when Writer had left the house he had tried to ignore it and have breakfast, but then he had seen the writer's jacket abandoned on the sofa.

He had taken it to carry it in the basket of dirty clothes to wash it, but without realizing it he had smelled it, smelling Rick's scent. A mix between the smell of his skin, tobacco and smoke.

He didn't even know how he found himself completely naked touching himself, continuing to smell that jacket.

He would have hidden his face in his hands if they hadn't been dirty with precum, sperm and saliva.

He got dressed slowly, then grabbed that same jacket on he had come to put it immediately to wash. Again he had the instinct to bury himself for the shame. How had it occurred to him? He had totally lost control. He had to hide evidence of his misdeed before Writer returned from work and then rush to work too.

He left the kitchen and went up the stairs slowly, dragging his bare feet on the parquet, and when he got upstairs a noise made his blood freeze in his veins.

He could hear water running in the shower and the bathroom door was closed.

He ran down the stairs at the risk of slipping and looked from the entrance window, the one next to the door, and felt himself dying.

Writer's motorbike was parked in the driveway.

He was already back. But _when_ exactly had he returned? Had he seen it? No, he probably would have yelled at him to be careful not to dirty his sofa... but if it were not so? If he had seen him while...

He squeaked in fear, rushing upstairs to hide the jacket he was holding in his bedside drawer, then ran back to the kitchen to wash his hands in the sink, using dish soap, and finally ran upstairs again, in the study.

He tended his ear to the water that flowed in the bathroom, jumping nervously from one foot to the other and cursing the computer that did not decide to turn on quickly.

He sat down in his place and started pretending to work just in time, because the water stopped flowing and the lock on the bathroom door opened.

Morty's leg moved nervously as he moved the mouse and clicked random things on the program he kept open in front of his eyes, listening to Writer go to the room probably to get dressed.

After an infinite time the writer entered the office and gave him a penetrating look, making him blush even more than he already was. Rick said nothing, only waved him to get up from the chair, so that he could sit in his place. The writer spread his arms as he used to make Morty take a seat on himself to work and the boy settled in his place, happy that in that way they could not look at each other.

They started to work silently as usual. There was only the clicks of the mouse and the sound of fingers tapping fast on the keyboard between them. Writer had to be tremendously inspired.

Yet Morty could not concentrate, he thought and thought about the fact that Rick might have seen him and he couldn't avoid from asked to him when he exactly came back. How could he not had heard the motocycle in the driveway?

Was he so horny that he heard nothing?

He stared at the computer screen in front of him, where no work had been started. No, he couldn't continue like this, he had to ask her or he would have gone mad.

He took a deep breath before speaking, but as soon as he opened his mouth, Rick spoke before him. Morty couldn't see his expression, but Writer's lips were curled into a grin.

« Morty? ».

Designer whitened and nothing came out of his mouth but a monosyllable strangled in response.

« I wanted to ask you, have you seen my jacket? You know, the black one, my favori- ».

« To the laundry! », he said in a high-pitched voice on the edge of hysteria, without leaving Rick time to finish the sentence.

« I t-took it to the l-laundry ».


	13. Fighting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by RickishMorty  
> Illustration by Yusunaby

Rick hated many things.

Ignorant people, for example. The superficial ones, unable to get to the bottom of things or who judged a book only by its cover.

And even though hating was a strong word, he couldn't stand most of his fans; Mortys more than anything. It was a long time since he wrote something for someone, but only for himself.

He hated to write things on commission, but he had learned to go beyond himself, taking them as a challenge.

But most of all the rest, even more of himself, he hated Stuttering Books and those two motherfuckers of Publisher and Editor. He hated the superficiality and arrogance of the first and the unbearable, squalid perversion of the other. But above all, he hated that he was forced to deal with them and that somehow those two could interact with his work. To convey it as they please, even.

But no fucking way that he made things easy for them.

“NO, I WON'T MAKE THESE FUCKING CHANGES BECAUSE THEY ARE SHITTY AND ALSO WRONG. IF ONLY YOU COULD READ, HOLY SHIT... What? WHAT? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? WHY DON'T YOU GO TO FUCK SOME MY FAN INSTEAD OF PISSING ME OFF? Oh right, BECAUSE YOU ARE DISTURBING AND YOU SMELL LIKE USED CONDOMS MORE THAN A SEXY SHOP. Ah, me? ME?!? Fuck you".

The writer hanged up his phone violently, throwing it on the bed and letting go of a scream of frustration that only one of them two could get out of him. Designer was at the door, running for those screams that had filled the whole house and of which he didn’t understand the cause. Writer hadn't even seen him but he knew he was there, even now that he continued to mumble something like "incompetent ugly idiots, incapable, usurpers of my works, mediocre and limited critics of my job". The boy raised a hand, unsure whether to reveal his presence or not to Rick.

The writer seemed to calm down suddenly, putting a hand on his face and massaging his temples, with a pained and nervous grimace, without turning to face the boy.

"Morty... Could you make me some tea please...?"

The designer seemed surprised that the writer knew he was there, before stammering a yes in response and going down the stairs in a hurry, almost slipping on the parquet because of his white socks. Rick heard him bump into the door jamb before he heard the small footsteps going downstairs.

The writer sat on the bed, his hands crossed and his mouth resting on them, thinking. Those filthy pieces of shit... they didn’t pay his monthly income and also pretend to put their hand on his drafts? He could imagine the scene: Publisher who didn't even read a line of what he had written, encouraging Editor to modify everything he wanted, lying about how good he was in his work and how much he had to do in order to save the next book.

To save.

It was he who fought every day to save every word from those two idiots.

And now he had to keep an eye on that boy too... Every time Editor was close to him he could feel his suit stink even more as he sweated, horny and uncontrollable.

Rick sighed, lowering his hands and bowing his head on the floor.

He was tired of always having to defend himself.

Sometimes, he was really tired.

A strong mint smell reached him, before a cup of tea appeared under his nose, held by two small hands. Rick looked up, meeting Morty's apprehensive and attentive gaze.

“He-here Rick, I d-didn’t know how you wanted it s-so I cho-chose the tea bags that were ending. I thought it was your fa-favorite taste. "

Rick said nothing, listening to the reasoning in silence, as he took the cup and blew on it.

That boy was smarter than the whole publishing house put together. Why the fuck couldn't everyone be like that? He worked in silence, respecting the work of others and thinking of doing his best, without ever complaining and without trying to escape his responsibilities.

It was the best thing that had happened to Stuttering Books, and nobody had noticed.

"Wow, we have a smartass here."

Rick said nothing about what went through his mind, taking a sip of tea before getting to his feet.

"I’m leaving".

The designer turned to him, frowning.

"W-why? Where do you go? "

"To make sure we can pay our bills."

Rick left the room, heading for the stairs, feeling the small presence that followed him.

"Oh... Ca-can I come with you?"

Rick turned to look at him and Morty's eyes looked twice as big with those stupid nerd glasses that covered them. Rick rolled his eyes before continuing down the stairs.

"Whatever".

Rick felt him slip again in his haste to reach him, holding back a smile as he went to the door.

He knew he had an ascendant on people, Mortys or Ricks. He had the gift of writing, of eloquence, of the ability to formulate a speech. He had the power that only words have.

Too bad he hated talking to people.

There were times when, however, he had to go beyond his limits, taking advantage of the weakness that others had towards him. Especially if it was to get the light back to his house.

Writer smiled at Counter, an easygoing, soft, but also intriguing smile, which combined with the eyelids perpetually lowered on his eyes made the accountant's legs tremble. His bald head glittered, shiny and sweaty, in the light of the low-consumption light bulb that illuminated the room. His eyes were wide, unable to separate from those of the writer, who had one hand resting on the desk where he was sitting. The security of the first was exactly mirrored by the uncertainty of the other; they were a perfectly aligned scale.

It was too easy.

"Well, it doesn't seem fair to me that my payments are so late, don't you think ...?"

Writer's soft and velvety voice reached the ears of the man in front of him, who swallowed nervously and clumsily. Incredible how much Counter could sweat.

"I-I-can't-do- n-nothing R-Rick, Pu-Publisher said-"

"Publisher, Publisher, Publisher..." Rick rolled his eyes, taking a turn on himself, before sitting backwards on the chair on the other side of the desk, with his arms crossed on the back of it and his face resting on them; “If I had wanted to talk to Publisher, I would have gone to the toilet. But I'm here with you... With the true mind of the Stuttering ".

Writer grinned, hearing Counter hold back a moan of surprise and agitation. Those scenes were on the agenda and he could not understand how Counter could still fall for them ... He himself, however, never had enough: teasing the accountant was one of his favorite hobbies, although he would never have admitted it. After all, he was more similar to Publisher and Editor than he wanted to admit.

He arched his unibrow, as Counter moved his face slightly to look over his shoulders, coughing. Rick turned in turn, noting Designer who had been in the door for who knows how long. Oh, yeah. He had come with him. He had gotten a little too busy with the "negotiation".

"Morty... Why don't you take a lil walk? No, better, wait outside. The grown-ups must speak. "

The writer smiled at him and they both knew that this was not a request, but an order. Designer had a questioning look and a frown, typical of someone who didn't know how to interpret a situation, but he knew he didn't like it. The stubborn gaze of a Morty who wanted to stay there and know.

Rick pursed his lips, looking at the brat who didn't seem willing to leave.

"Out," he said simply, but that was enough; his voice was very different from the soft and velvety one he had addressed to Counter. The boy bit his lips, before turning and getting out of there: Rick didn't miss the detail of the door left half-open instead of closed. He held a smirk before turning to his alternative version, which now had his shirt totally soaked.

"Where were we?"

The designer had his ear attached to the door, firmly intent on hearing what was happening on the other side. Except for a few whispers, however, there was no way to distinguish any other sentence.

Morty kicked a small bottle on the ground, seeing it roll in the corridor, as he walked back and forth in front of Counter's office, like an impatient little tiger. Why did Writer have that soft, curvy, accommodating voice? What was he planning to do? And why was Counter sweating so much?

He was envious of the accountant: Rick had never addressed him in that soft, languid way; he was always indifferent or annoyed. And this at best.

If Rick thought he would stay there waiting for him, he was wrong. He could not go home, but at least he would take a tour outside the publishing house, in the tourist district of the Citadel. He was thirsty, though.

As he made his way to the distributor with his head down, he thought about a little detail he hadn't thought about: he had wanted to follow Rick to Stuttering. Nobody asked him, indeed. Maybe he had to try to stay a little further away from the writer... He didn't want him to consider him annoying.

In front of the distributor, Morty slipped his hands into his pockets, before realizing that he had left his purse at home. Perfect. Just what he needs.

As he was about to raise his head, Morty heard the sound of a coin coming down the distributor and a strange, strong stink of latex and acrylic.

"Could I offer you something, baby ..?"

The boy turned, seeing Editor next to him, leaning against the machine where he had just stuck some money. He looked at him with a mellifluous and mischievous smile, always dressed in his inseparable red jumpsuit. Morty didn't know why, but for a moment associated it with the maniacs' raincoats.

Before Morty could answer, Editor typed a number and the machine began to rumble.

“American coffee, right? It seems to me you don't drink anything else ”.

Morty looked at the taller man, pausing to think for a moment that not all Ricks were alike. Indeed, many differed decisively from each other. Whether it was voluntary or random, it was not known. Of course, Editor was not similar to Rick.

"Y-yes, thank you, but there is no n-nee-"

"Ooh, but I'm glad, baby" Editor chuckled, looking down on the designer, as if he were a scanner, "I haven't given you yet... the _welcome_ you deserve".

Editor continued to smile at him, with a kindness that made him shiver. Designer frowned, divided between two different cravings: that of not being rude to a disturbing person, but who was still showing kindness towards him, and that of listening to Rick's words. His warning to stay away from that maniac and never ever be alone with him.

The second option won.

"Thank you, b-but-"

Editor reached into the distributor, taking the coffee that had been ready for a few seconds and offering it to the boy.

"Well? Isn't that what you wanted? "

Morty nodded, before taking the shot glass from Editor with both hands, who took a little too long to let it go, looking him in the eyes in a moment of silence that made noise. Then, he smiled again.

"What are you doing here? All alone too... Where did you leave Shakespeare? " he chuckled, still looking down the hall, perhaps to make sure Writer wasn't actually around.

"He-he is dealing with Counter," Morty replied, taking a sip of coffee, so nervous that he didn't even feel it burning on his lips. How did he get away from that situation?

"Oh, _dealing_... I understand. And has he ever taken you on a Stuttering’s tour since you arrived? "

"N-no..." Morty backed away, determined to take the corridor and go back to Counter's study, even to enter if necessary, "I-I should go back now. Thank you for the coffee! "

The designer smiled at him, before turning his back on him and walking with hot coffee in his hand to go back to where he was before. Editor pulled away from the distributor, with a malicious, self-assured grin that Morty couldn't see.

"Oh... Do you want to tell me he didn't even show you his room?"

Morty didn't turn, continuing to walk, but raising his hand in greeting.

"Y-yes, I know his office."

Editor arched his unibrow, launching his final move.

"No, no... HIS room. The one dedicated to him, with all his prizes, awards, first editions, notes... "

Morty slowed down to a stop as Editor's voice caught up with him.

Bingo.

The boy turned, looking at him with an emotional and naive look.

"Re-really ...?"

Editor found himself thinking what Writer had thought with Counter a little earlier: too easy. It was enough to know what a child's favorite candies were to attract him. Once discovered, the game was over.

And it was as clear as the sun that Morty's favorite candies were the books of that self-centered jerk.

"Oh yes. There are all his manuscripts there. ”Editor shrugged, putting his hand in his pocket and feeling his erection that was already being born, widening the fabric of the suit to not make it visible; "But if you have to come back, maybe he'll show it to you sooner or later."

Morty looked down, reflecting on those words. Writer would never show it to him. He never showed him anything and never said anything to him. It was Publisher who had told him that he had been a Professor in the past; had it been for him, he would never have known. Maybe he didn't know anything about him.

"Have a nice day, Dicksigner," Editor said, walking over and giving him his back.

And staying out of Counter's office wouldn't have changed things.

"W-wait..."

Editor stopped. Morty couldn’t see the perverted, horny smile on his face.

Morty had been to many libraries, several bookstores, various comics and dozens of newsstands. He had saved a lot of money during college, drawing Jessica naked to all his classmates, allowing himself to buy new study and work materials. Sure, he also drew a lot of Ricks, but he had never been sure if he reproduced them well. That money, however, had been used also and above all to buy all the books written by Writer Rick... novels, essays, stories, sagas, even some poetry. Morty had all his complete bibliography and they were practically all first editions. He had also risked a lot to get them, sometimes, incurring Ricks who sold the books online and who didn't ask for money, but photos and maybe some encounters. There was only one that he missed: it was the first book that Writer had ever written and that he had never been able to read, except for some excerpt found online.

And now that copy was in front of him. It was under a display case, in a simple, humble binding. Stuttering Books had never reprinted it and certainly there was a hand of Publisher and Counter: the auctions on RickBay were extremely competitive and surely the publishing house had managed to earn a lot of money.

And now, he was finally in front of it. And not only that, but all the plates, certificates, statuettes and awards won by Writer and Stuttering Books thanks to his books. Photos, signed manuscripts, recognition scrolls, also in alien languages. Designer would never have imagined that there was a Sancta Sanctorum created especially for him and that it would have been Editor himself to show it to him. It was unbelievable.

"I-I can't believe it..." Morty didn't know where to start; he was afraid to touch anything and at the same time he felt the urge to steal for the first time. Even Rick didn't have many of those things at home. In fact, there was not even a single prize at home. Why?

"You like it, uh..?"

Editor's voice caught up with him, but Morty was too busy studying the shelves and photos to pay attention to him. Many were recent photos, but in others Rick was younger. Could some date back to the time when he was a professor?

There was so much he didn't know about him ... What was he different from any other fan? True, he worked and lived with him, but how much did he really know about his life, his person, more than anyone who had read his biography? The rest of the team hated him like he hated them, but they certainly knew more than he did. And Editor had decided to show it to him; if it had been for Rick, he would never have seen that room.

Maybe he wasn't that bad.

Morty turned, with a grateful smile turned to Editor, determined to sincerely thank him for what he had shown him. The words died in his throat along with the smile, the moment he looked down, seeing Editor who was touching himself. His hard, wet penis was out of the jumpsuit and his hand stroked it for its entire length, while grinning satisfied.

He was masturbating in front of him.

Morty turned immediately, back to Writer's wall, blushing brightly for what he never expected to see. Editor... Editor was... Morty began to think with wide eyes, paralyzed by the fear and shame of a similar scene for which he was not prepared.

He looked at the door, ready to run away, but his legs didn’t react to his commands. And Editor was faster than he was. Morty felt his body on him and his hand continuing to move, while the other went to caress his thigh.

"I bet you got a hard-on to see all that idiot's bullshit ..."

Morty tried to move away, but Editor squeezed the crotch of his pants tightly, crushing him with his body against the table to which he rested his hands. He breathed in the scent of his hair and Morty’s stomach turned over.

"N-no, ple-please, n-not-"

It was not the first time that a Rick had tried to touch him like this; in life he had literally dodged harassment several times, luckily or skillfully, but always hardly. Ricks were predators, Mortys prey: there was no need to add much more. Each followed his nature. Why did Editor have to be different? He had repeatedly shown him that he was a perverted maniac and had even gone into the trouble that was already announced.

What? Maybe he thought he was different for the team? To be an _exceptional_ Morty?

Editor leaned down on his ear, panting against it in an obscene way, as he thrust the erection against his lower back. The other hand went to slip into his pants, on the front; Morty, however, was not at all excited. He was terrified.

“Oh, don't you even wear boxers? Writer has chosen his bitch really well. "

Morty put his hands on the man's wrist, trying to stop him, but Editor’s hand alone was enough to be stronger than his two put together. He was stroking him, massaging him hard to try to masturbate him.

"E-Editor ... P-please s-sto -"

"Ever since you arrived, I've been thinking about how to get inside you..."

Morty felt his eyes sting, blinded by the tears of having been so stupid as to trust. He looked up, aware that he would not be able to stop him, trying to focus on Rick's photos, on his successes. If it had to happen, at least he wanted to try to think he was with him the first time.

It was as if Editor had read his thoughts, while he was just lowering his pants, licking his neck.

"You can think of him if you want..."

Morty tried not to smell that latex and acrylic stink, imagining the smell of Rick's tobacco, alcohol and ink.

"You can call me Writer..."

Morty looked intently at a photo of Rick, with a tear running down his cheek.

"Anyway we have the same cock... but you already know it, don’t you?"

Morty closed his eyes as Editor was about to take his pants off completely, praying he wouldn't speak again, to pretend to imagine someone else. To imagine _him_.

A violent knock on the door made both of them jump, especially the boy. Another, even stronger, yielded both the locked doors, which swung open. Someone had torn it off with a kick. Morty, turning, missed a beat: it was Writer. Behind him was Counter, visibly shaken and agitated, stammering more than usual.

Writer remained motionless, staring first at Designer, then Editor's hands on him, and finally the man himself. His gaze was indecipherable. Cold, like a murderer before he gets his hands dirty with blood.

Editor broke away from Morty, with the cock still out of his pants, raising his hands as a sign of surrender and innocence, of those who have touched nothing of what they should not touch. He smiled at him, chuckling nervously as he backed away from the boy.

"Hey, Writer... I showed him your secret spot, b-but we weren't doing anything. The boy was just lost. "

Rick watched him back off, without changing his expression, before approaching Morty, who in the meantime had closed his pants again and was struggling to catch his breath. He looked down at him, as if to make sure he was well, before ordering him what he had asked not even an hour ago, in a cold and icy tone, which was not what Morty needed.

"Wait out here. And do it, this time. "

Morty looked at him without saying anything, nodding in the tachycardia that was killing him, literally. He went out, with Counter moving to let him pass, returning to look alarmed inside the room, seeing Writer continuing to approach Editor.

"He-hey, you won't be angry... Come on, I didn't fucking do anything to him" Editor continued to chuckle, as he finally closed the zip again: "He w-was the one who wanted to see this fucking room, practically he asked to-".

Editor collided with another display case and Writer joined him, stopping exactly in front of him. The colleague raised his hands again, in a nervous laugh.

"Well... It was you who told me to go to fuck one of your fans, wasn't it?"

Writer smiled at him, nodding once, before taking the man's head and slamming it against a display case behind him, breaking it into a thousand pieces.

Counter jumped, covering his mouth with his hands and running away, leaving the two Ricks inside the room and Morty on a corridor chair, who was still trying to catch his breath.

Editor moaned, accusing the blow and putting his hands on his head, while an identification plate slipped on the ground, breaking. Writer pick him up, grabbing him by the sweatshirt of his suit and smashing him on a table, careless of all that was on it, dragging him to the end of the table, dropping everything on the ground. While Editor begged him to stop, Rick put him straight again, crushing him against the wall and giving him a headbutt against his forehead, where he remained attacked while his colleague screamed.

"I don't give a shit about all the sluts you fuck thanks to MY books..."

The two looked each other in the eye, with Editor clenching his teeth starting to bleed from his forehead and Writer hissing on his lips, in a low, murderer voice.

"... but touch him another time and I'll finish the job I started some time ago and I'll split your face completely".

The two glared at each other, with hatred, before Editor spit in his face. Writer tightened his grip on the suit and would have thrown him to the ground if Publisher hadn't stepped in to divide them. Rick turned to the man, looking at Counter behind him: he must have called him.

"HEY, HEY, HEY, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?"

Publisher literally intruded on each other, allowing Editor to sneak away, holding onto Writer who snapped to grab him again.

"WHAT’S YOUR FUCKING PROBLEM?"

"MINE? You have hired a sex maniac who is also an incompetent piece of shit. "

"Yes, and do you remember who advised me to do it? Get pissed at yourself! "

Writer and Publisher looked at each other, with a different hatred, but equally strong in the eyes. The second turned to Editor, shaking his head towards him, who was dabbing his bloody forehead with his sleeve: "Pay yourself a whore, instead of stealing Mortys of others."

“Mortys are all whores. He was the first to want it. "

Publisher almost lost his grip on Rick, who snapped back on Editor, to slaughter him alive.

“And YOU,” he said, stopping him again, “this isn't a fucking playground. Think twice before bringing him here and, if you do, keep a fucking eye on him. "

The two remained silent for a moment, challenging each other with their eyes.

"I allowed you to hire that Morty and every day I almost vomit at the thought of having allowed it..." Publisher arched a corner of his mouth, disgusted. Writer freed himself with a furious jerk and the two stared at each other, still.

"... make sure he’ll be not a problem."

“Pay me the fucking arrears. Or I assure you that you will have a problem. "

Writer looked at him in disgust, as much as Publisher was looking at him like that. He overcame him, passing next to Editor and narrowing his gaze into another silent promise. The two watched him come out of the upturned room, while Counter stepped aside to let him pass, with a slightly guilty look. Rick didn't deign him or Morty a look.

Fortunately, the boy had recovered his breath. He looked up, meeting that of Publisher who looked at him, icy, and who had never made him feel welcome, now more than ever.

He stood up, following Rick and swearing to himself that he would never go out without his water-bottle again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give us some love!!


	14. Sex ruined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by Lilium125

Writer Rick was sitting in the tub, in what was supposed to be a relaxing bath, to ease his nerves and finally help him write, but that was proving to be a total disaster. The now extinguished cigarette between his lips threatened to drop the ash into the warm, transparent water, without even a soap bubble. In front of him he had set up an improvised table resting on the edges of the tub, on which he kept his PC, his notes and the ashtray now full.

He hadn't been writing for two days because he was pissed off and this pissed him off even more. He could not free his mind in any way, because as soon as he tried to concentrate, he remembered the bastard expression of Editor, his slimy smile and that old perverted laugh.

Just thinking about it, his blood went up to his brain.

The ash ended up in the water, but Rick didn't care, still immersed in his thoughts.

“ _T_ _his isn't a fucking playground. Think twice before bringing him here and, if you do, keep a fucking eye on him_ ”.

The truth was that in addition to being pissed like a beast at that Editor freak, he was even more pissed at himself. It was his fault that Morty had been in that situation, because it was he who had brought him there.

Morty's expression figured in his mind, his lips parting in search of a breath he couldn't take.

“ _Mortys are all whores. He was the first to want it_ ”.

« Bullshit », he growled aloud, refraining from overturning everything that was on the table. Yet he could not stop a distant little voice inside him, which made his vein throb on his forehead.

He threw the half cigarette into the ashtray, crushing it with such force that others spilled out. He opened the container in which he kept the tobacco to roll a new one: empty. He closed his eyes to try to control himself, really risking losing control and making everything fly.

Relaxing bath, of course.

« MORTY! », he screamed so loudly that her voice rumbled in the bathroom walls. He heard the light footsteps of the boy approaching quickly, and while waiting for him he put his fingers under his glasses to rub his eyes, mentally exhausted.

Despite being called by the writer, Morty knocked politely before opening the door and peeking into the room. Rick didn't look at him and waved him in. It was those small gestures that made him understand how sensitive that boy was, very small things that showed the attention the designer had towards him.

Another wave of anger vibrated in his chest, threatening to make him lose control.

« Fill it with tobacco, the drier one please », he handed him the container and smiled slightly when Morty blushed and looked away when she realized that the water was totally clear. The boy took the container and barely reached for the overflowing ashtray, before leaving the bathroom with a red face, but with a hint of a smile.

He let himself slide a little further into the water, his mind split in two: one part tried to work out the next chapter, the other couldn't help thinking about Morty, Editor and the fact that the whole situation was his fault. Although that man had caused him problems in the past, making him risk his teaching job, Rick still had him hired at Stuttering. He had regretted it many times, but never as in that moment.

Morty's footsteps heralded his return and again the boy knocked before entering. Again with his red face he put the empty and clean ashtray in its place and handed the writer the container with tobacco and two ready cigarettes, closed a little badly.

« I m-made you two ... w-well, I tried, b-but with dry tobacco it’s m-more difficult to close them », he adjusted the glasses that had slipped on his nose.

Rick took them and put them on the table next to the laptop. He gestured to Morty to get out, taking a filter and holding it between his lips, as he prepared the rolling paper on the palm of his hand. The designer started to go out embarrassed and perhaps vaguely disappointed that the writer had snubbed the cigarettes he had prepared for him - he had bought everything necessary in secret to train to roll them, but still he was not even nearly as good as Writer.

« Thank you », Rick murmured without looking up, the word came out distorted by the filter that still held in his mouth. Morty gave him one of his sweetest smiles before closing the door behind him.

Rick licked the paper to close the cigarette, the taste of the glue on the tip of his tongue gave him a vague feeling of calm, but in the end he did not turn it on, placing it on the table and taking one of the two that the boy had prepared.

He held it between the index and middle fingers to observe it, before placing it between his lips to turn it on. It wasn't tight and didn't pull, but it didn't matter. All he needed was the idea of the boy pressing the tobacco with small, tapered fingers, trying to roll it trying to hold the filter still, his tongue sliding on the rolling paper before closing it... he could almost feel his taste.

He felt a jolt between his legs, while his mind started to gallop, he felt the inspiration grow with his excitement. He placed the cigarette on the edge of the empty and clean ashtray, starting to run his fingers over the keyboard, after two days of total block. He remembered the feeling of the warm and soft body of the designer on himself when they were both sitting in the same chair. Those sensations, mixed with the delicate smell of his skin, of his hair, it was as if they were throwing gasoline on the fire of his inspiration. The erection throbbed between his legs, as he wrote so quickly that his fingers could not keep up with him, but the magic did not last long, because Publisher's voice crept maliciously into his thoughts, making that moment end as if a had burst bubble of soap.

“ _Pay yourself a whore, instead of stealing Mortys of others_ ”.

This time he really risked overturning the table, making everything end up in the water. What the fuck was wrong with him? Was he still thinking about it?

Inspiration and erection faded at the same time, as they arrived. Furious with himself, he got up and left the tub, heedless of wetting the floor and wrapping around his waist the towel that hung near the sink. He left everything there as it was, but before going out he went back, taking Morty's cigarette and the lighter.

He went into the bedroom, leaving his wet footprintson the parquet, and sat down at the foot of the bed in the dark, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his

hands.

 _S_ _tealing Mortys of others._

Designer was not _his_ Morty, he had hired him only for his skill and because in the end he enlarged his already immense ego. For anything else.

Also because it inspired him, but there really were no other reasons.

Ah, and also because in the end it was convenient to have someone who did boring things for him, or who brought him what he needed when he was busy. Nothing else.

He lit the now extinguished cigarette again.

“Such a cute Morty in the house, and you never touched him...?”.

No. Their was purely a professional relationship. Yet Editor had touched him. The thoughts were invaded by the image of that perverted maniac who stood above Morty, who rubbed against him, his hands in the boy's pants.

His stomach turned over in anger and disgust and he was tempted to leave the house and run to kick him in the ass to his house.

“When you fuck him, does he moan or cry?”.

Morty's frightened and tearful face, clutched in Editor's slimy hands, appeared in Rick's mind, who sprang to his feet, starting to wander up and down the room.

How had he even thought before Morty really wanted him? He knew that Editor was a fucking maniac, he knew that luring kids was his specialty. And his Morty was particularly naive.

 _Hi_ _s_ Morty.

“Have you already tasted him… ? What does he taste like?”.

Like strawberries.

The cigarette glowed red in the dark when he took a puff. He turned it off in the ashtray on his bedside table. That taste would never forget him.

That shy, insignificant contact between their lips.

Strawberries always had disgusted him, but now he could not help but connect them to him, even just feeling the scent gave him a feeling of warmth in the stomach. And between the legs.

_Those soft lips._

He left the room for the study, the erection that swelled the towel wrapped around his waist.

_That sweet taste._

He threw open the door to the study, startling Morty in the chair, which blazed when he saw him half naked in front of him.

_He wanted to feel that taste again._

The designer jumped up and looked at him with worried looks. He looked down at the towel for just a moment, before turning it away, gasping.

« R-Rick, did so-something happ- ».

But Rick entered the room, canceling the distance between the two of them. Morty had his breath blocked, his lips parted slightly, as if they were inviting him, looking up at him still sitting on his chair. His face was illuminated only on the right side, by the light of his computer.

The writer lowered himself to be at the same height as the boy, taking his chin between the index and thumb, approaching his face and brushing the skin of his neck with the tip of his nose, letting himself be invaded by his perfume. He could almost feel the designer's little heart beating fast.

Indeed he wanted to hear it.

He placed a hand on the boy's chest, who let out a trembling sigh. Yes, his heart was beating so hard that he seemed to want to come out of his chest.

But what if it's out of fear? What if it was doing him the same effect that Editor had done to him?

He moved away just to look him in the eyes, to look for clues in his gaze, almost fearing to meet the same eyes wide open and wet with tears.

He was wrong.

Morty had a hot face of embarrassment and even in the dim light of the screen you could see how red it was. His eyes were just half-closed behind the large, slightly clouded glasses and he returned the writer's gaze. Rick could read everything in those eyes, but not the terror he had seen two days ago.

He slipped the back of the hand with which he held the boy's chin along his warm face, as in a caress, sliding on his smooth skin until he caressed his hair near his ear. Without realizing it Morty tilted his head slightly towards that hand, intensifying that contact.

Rick smiled, any doubt quickly dissipating.

He approached the boy's neck again, barely brushing it with his lips, enjoying his sweet scent, sinking his hands into his hair. Morty let out another deeper sigh.

He felt his legs tremble, his heart was beating a thousand and he was terribly excited and wet.

He must have died and ended up in heaven. Writer Rick, his idol, his God, touched him with such delicacy that even his soul vibrated. He let himself be enveloped by its smell of tobacco, smoke and something good. Nothing to do with Editor's disgusting stench, nothing to do with his smooth, slimy hands. He forced himself not to think about him.

The touch of Writer's, even if rough and if marked by the calluses given by always holding the pen in hand, even if his hands were always stained with ink, was a whole other world.

He wished that moment would never end.

He risked passing out when Rick kissed his neck softly. That contact made a soft groan escape him, and he felt the writer's lips pursed in a smile on his skin, tickled him a little.

Rick kissed his neck again, more confidently, moving slowly towards the boy's chin with a series of kisses that looked like fire. Morty's head was spinning and he felt his pants getting wet and his erection more and more pulsating.

Writer was dangerously close to his mouth and Morty risked passing out when the man put his lips on the corner of his mouth. He was immobilized by fear, emotion, excitement. Why had Rick stopped right now? Why he stopped kissing him? Why did he backed from him? He looked for the answer in the writer's eyes through his slightly fogged glasses, but Rick did not look at him, his eyes were closed. Their mouths were a puff from each other, Morty could hear Rick just out of breath, he would have given an arm to understand what was going on in the man's head and was invaded by a thousand doubts.

Maybe he didn't like it? Maybe he had done something wrong? What if he kissed badly? He didn’t know how to kiss. He tried to rethink all the books Rick had written, hoping to remember some details, some help, but despite knowing all the writer's stories by heart, at this time not even one came to his mind.

What if Rick changed his mind? Maybe he didn't want to kiss him and Morty had dreamed everything, maybe he was misrepresenting the situation. What was he supposed to do? _Oh God, did his breath stink_? He risked going hyperventilated with all those questions. He swallowed.

Morty didn't know, but he was wrong on all fronts and while he was tangling his brain with his own doubts, Rick fought against himself to calm down.

He was so excited that he risked dangerously losing control. It had occurred to him that _this_ could have been the boy's very first kiss, indeed he was sure of it. And if a part of him said that it was not fair that he should be taken that first time, another one shouted at him to do it immediately.

Him would have been his. Not of Editor, nor of anyone else. That first time had to be his. All of Morty's very first times had to be his.

With a touch of selfish pride, he remembered that those lips had already been his. And he wanted more.

_What did him taste like? Like strawberry._

He took the boy's face in his hands, raising it slightly, and kissed him.

As soon as their lips touched, Morty groaned and Rick smiled and just chuckled, as he was invaded by the taste of the little one.

Him tasted of coffee.

He had to expect it, that boy was practically made of coffee now. He kissed him again, enjoying that unexpected taste, sinking his hands into his brown hair and throwing the hat he always wore on the ground. Holding back cost him a huge effort when Morty shyly placed his hands on his arms. Not to push him away, but almost clinging to him.

Their breaths mingled and Writer could no longer resist, stroking him with his tongue, entering his slightly parted lips that seemed to be waiting for him. Although it was clear that Rick was in control of the situation, although it was clear that Morty had absolutely no idea what to do, the writer let the boy lead the kiss. Because he wanted to have the last, irrefutable certainty of being right, and because those uncertain movements, those moans of pleasure, were making his head spin.

He gently took Morty's arms, guiding them to gird his neck, and the designer in turn dipped his hands into the writer's hair. Those small and delicate hands that drove him crazy.

Rick was fed up.

That soft kiss was not enough, the excitement was slowly clouding his vision. The time of a whisper broke away from his mouth.

« Hold me tight ».

He didn't even give Morty time to figure out what he meant, that grabbed him by the thighs, lifting him up and bringing his legs to wrap his waist. Designer squeezed them around his pelvis more by instinct than anything else, but this movement made the towel that covered Rick slide on the ground. Their erections touched, Rick's naked one against the one hidden by Morty's pants. The writer hissed with pleasure, the designer moaned uncontrollably.

This was too much for Rick.

He knelt slowly on the floor, never interrupting the kiss with the boy tightly clinging to his body, placing him on the ground and positioning himself on him.

He slowly slipped a hand under the boy's tshirt, who didn't seem to have noticed that Rick was completely naked on him. With his other arm, he kept his elbow so as not to crush Morty with his weight.

Hearing the boy moaning like that was a wonderful torture and Rick wanted more and more. He bit his neck slightly, letting his hand slide further down his chest, until he reached the elastic of Morty's pants. He drew the outline with his fingertips, enjoying every reaction of the boy's body, slowly insinuating himself and barely touching the wet glans.

For the umpteenth time in those hours he wondered what him tasted like.

Rick continued to descend with his hand, stroking the rod that pulsed under his fingers, while Designer clung to him with his nails, panting his name.

Rick squeezed his erection with his whole hand and Morty arched his back, trying to hold his voice with all his might, but the more Writer moved his hand, the more the designer's moans increased in volume.

« R-Rick… p-please… ».

« Come Morty, come for me… », Rick bit his earlobe and Morty scratched Writer's chest, coming into his hand.

Writer was in danger of coming too, without even touching himself. He was so excited that his precum dripped on the floor, but he wanted even more. He couldn't get that question out of his mind.

What did him taste like?

Morty had his eyelids lowered, stunned by orgasm and the whole situation, but he widened his eyes when the writer pulled his pants down, lowering his face towards his dick who was starting to soften. He tried to close his legs, but Rick was right in the middle so it was impossible. Only then did he notice that the writer was completely naked.

« N-no, Rick, what d-do you want to- ».

« I'm tired of telling you this, Morty. How you have to call me? ».

« B-boss », gasped Morty breathlessly, while Rick looked at him from below with a satisfied grin, before licking his entire dick, from the base to the tip, savoring his semen.

Morty's member pulsed and the pleasure of that contact mingled with the annoyance of the orgasm he had just had. The annoyance passed immediately when Rick's warm mouth completely enveloped his dick, which immediately began to harden again.

The boy whirled his head, that had been his very first orgasm procured by someone else. And it had been precisely at the hands of Writer.

And now the writer was giving him his first blowjob. The sensation was so strange and damned pleasant that in a few seconds his erection was again very hard.

There was no telling which of the two was enjoying the most at the time, if Morty enjoying the attentions of Rick's expert thongue or the writer whose mind was invaded by ideas.

At that exact moment Rick's brain was so clogged that for the very first time in his life Writer wanted to turn it off and enjoy the moment. He still wanted to taste Morty, he wanted to feel him enjoy it again, he wanted to make it come into his mouth.

But the inspiration doesn't stop when arrives.

An entire chapter was being written in his mind, the ending of a book that he had set aside for two years and had never known how to end it.

It was as if his Muse was slapping him, waking him from a torpor that had lasted for months, finally showing him what he was looking for, the solution he had been looking for for a lifetime.

He couldn't lose it.

He sprang to his feet, leaving Morty helpless on the floor, which let out a voice of disappointment and frustration. He was about to come again, why had he stopped?

The writer turned on the spot, totally naked, and left the room quickly, as if he were in a trance.

He had had the idea he needed, yes, it was perfect and he had to write it immediately. There was no time.

He ran to the bathroom, slamming the door and slipping into the tub, the water was cold by now but Rick was so busy and concentrated that he didn't notice.

The fingers flew on the keyboard very fast, unstoppable, the erection still throbbed in need.

Rick resumed writing finally unlocked, he licked his lips still feeling the taste of Morty. Nothing would have stopped him now.

The designer was still on the studio floor, sweaty and upset. He hadn't even understood what had happened and it took him a while to get up, very red with shame.

He could feel Rick's fingers tapping on the keyboard and despite the strange feeling that he was left with being left on the ground, his little ego swelled just knowing that, perhaps, probably, it was thanks to him that the writer was finally unlocked. He couldn't take it any more to see him so frustrated.

He got up shaky on his legs, feeling satisfied with the orgasm he had had, and dissatisfied with what had been denied him in the end. He went to change in the bedroom, because his pants were now completely wet with moods and semen.

He tried to get back to work, but he couldn't help thinking about what had just happened, still getting excited.

« MORTY! ».

He nearly fell off his chair.

Oh God, he wasn't ready to face Rick, what was he supposed to do? He felt even more burning and pretended not to have heard, but the writer called him louder, with an urgent tone in his voice. He could no longer ignore it.

He knocked twice before entering the bathroom and peeped his head, intending not to go in and show that he still had an erection.

« D-did you c-call me? ».

« Yes, hypersensitive little gay, twice. Make me tea and four or five cigarettes, as you did them before. It doesn't matter which tobacco you use, but move or I lose the flow. MOVE! ».

Morty jumped on the spot and ran down the stairs as fast as he could, frantically searching through the rolling paper and filters.

As he clumsily rolled his cigarettes, he couldn't stop smiling.


	15. Contract

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by RickishMorty  
> Illustration by Yusunaby

Contracts were the thing that made him most worried. As in all artistic works, the fear that one's work could be stolen, plagiarized, modified or underpaid was around the corner. Making pacts, making compromises, understanding the percentages ... They were languages he didn't know and didn't want to speak. Reducing his books and creations to a series of articles, rights and duties made him to not want to write another one.

It was all so ... practical.

For this Counter was fundamental. He was thinking about everything, knowing perfectly well what Rick would compromise and what not. What he preferred in terms of events, meet & greet, distribution, advertising. It took so many burdens away from him that Writer didn't trust anyone else.

Obviously, Counter protected him and Stuttering against bookstores, newsstands, patrons. But if it was a matter of defending him or Stuttering, everything changed: Writer always came after. He knew perfectly well that Publisher reviewed every contract, making Rick less paid than he owed, that he had absurd obligations to the publishing house. That he was frustrated and dissatisfied.

But he didn't know it was Publisher's sick and sadistic way of keeping him close.

The one who suffered the most was Counter though: seeing Rick's angry and frustrated look was unbearable for his guilt, despite the fact that it made him wrinkle around the eyes that made his legs tremble.

In short, contracts were one of the things he hated most in the world. That Publisher went to discuss them with customers was the second. The third was when he too had to go.

Writer was looking out the window, with Designer working behind him, at the kitchen table. He looked out, with his arms crossed and a nervous look: the client had been categorical. Either Writer also came, or nothing was done. And since he had bookstores on four different galaxies, he had agreed to accept.

He sighed, rubbing his temple, annoyed: it was going to be a very long morning. Designer looked at him, worried, absently working to observe his reactions, helpless. He had made him breakfast, but Rick rarely did it: when he was nervous, less than ever.

"Y-you sure you don't want a coffee, R-Rick?"

Writer made no reply, with his hand moving to cover his whole face, while still with his eyes closed he shook his head, as the only answer. He and Publisher were never alone. Never. He made sure that they never were, going to the office only when he was sure that the others were there: since when there was Designer, then, practically his shadow, it was almost impossible that he was alone.

"No" he replied almost a minute later, with a delayed burst, "Thanks", before lowering his hand from his face, looking out the window again and seeing him: Publisher was there, in his perfectly polished car, with his sunglasses and the inevitable cell phone attached to the ear.

It was a black Fiat 124 Spider. He knew that car very well. It had gone up on it hundreds of times.

Immediately, Writer's cell phone rang, making him answer, but without giving him time to speak.

“Hhola, Papi, were you even expecting me from the window? So cute..."

Rick narrowed his eyes, watching him as he greeted him, terribly tempted for a moment not to get off.

"You're early".

It was true. He had arrived at least half an hour earlier. This lengthened the times, the anxieties, the annoyance.

He certainly did it on purpose.

"I know you're usually awake at night like all nocturnal birds of prey, Owly, but bring that ass to the sunlight and worthy of the world of your presence."

Rick rolled his eyes before hanging on his face and putting his cell phone in his pocket. He turned to Designer, who was still looking at him, with the tablet in front of him that was now off.

"You know how to cook yourself, right?"

"Yup. I-I make a pasta. "

"With what?"

"Ketchup…?"

"... Porcatroia, order something".

Perfect, now he was even sick. Writer walked away, leaving a twenty dollar bill on the table before leaving.

He went down the stairs nervously with his hands in his pockets and a black mood that was even more visible than usual. Publisher, on the other hand, waited for him with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the car and with a smile that could not have been more dazzling.

They couldn't have been more different.

"Hola, Papi".

Writer looked at him badly, electrocuting him with his glance, without affecting that smile in the least.

"Let's do a quick thing."

Publisher raised his glasses, showing him his eyes of different colors, which looked at him mischievously.

"Oh, but you know that I lasted so long ..."

Writer reached out to open the door, but Publisher preceded him, opening it and stepping aside to let him in. Writer looked at him for a second, wary; Publisher continued to smile at him, raising his eyebrow as he urged him to enter. Writer sighed before slipping into the passenger seat.

Publisher joined him immediately, without opening the door and sliding into the driver's seat by moving his legs. Writer looked at him sideways, before crossing his arms and his legs, looking out. He didn't want to look at anything about that car: there were dozens of memories tied to every little detail.

Remember that belonged to them both.

Publisher put his glasses on again, continuing to smile, pissing off the writer even more: what the fuck was he to be so happy ?!

"We still have some time before the meeting ... I'll take you for breakfast. They don't have rodents and small mammals to satiate you with, but I think it will be fine anyway. "

Writer lowered his eyelids, lifting one corner of his mouth.

"I'm not hungry".

Publisher grinned, turning right, heading for the Citadel Industrial District.

"I'm _starving_ ".

The place was nice. Definitely. It was as he liked it: a little vintage, but not pretentious or exaggerated. Not kitschy or snobbish. A reassuring and balanced middle ground. The office where they had to sign the contract was the opposite building; it seemed almost done on purpose. Another twenty minutes before entering.

Too bad the companion was not the best.

Publisher was drinking cold lemon tea, accompanied by eggs and bacon, the ideal protein breakfast for someone who did all that sport. Writer had nothing in front of him, if not a coffee, taken just to not be rude to the local. With his arms crossed, he watched Publisher devour his breakfast, terrified of feeling his stomach bubbling at any moment. But there was no way to satisfy him and eat him too.

"Your stupid pride deprives you of so many pleasures, Papi ... If only you knew what you are missing."

Publisher, with his glasses back over his head, winked at him: hard to know if he was referring to breakfast or anything else.

Writer twisted his mouth, looking away, just as he passed the dessert trolley in front of him, pushed by a Rick with a white apron.

"Cake?"

"Hey, only I can call him like that."

Rick glared him again, give him a kick under the table that Publisher dodged.

"Anyway no thanks, he doesn't like sweets."

The waiter looked at them for a moment before shrugging and leaving. Rick narrowed his eyes before shaking his head.

"I can answer it myself".

"But you hate to do it" Publisher grinned, leaving a last piece of bacon on the plate and resting his face on one hand. Writer took a quick look at the plate before returning to Publisher.

"I know you want it."

Writer frowned, slightly widening his eyes, blinking without understanding.

"What?"

"Bacon. You hate sweets, but you love eggs and bacon in the morning. "

“Fuck, when I die you won't even have to find someone to write my biography. You will be sufficient ”.

Publisher chuckled, before approaching him the dish with a finger: "Do you want me to feed you?"

Writer snorted, rolling his eyes: "Are you fucking done? Can we go?"

Publisher smiled again before nodding, interrupted by a yawn that he hid with his hand and closed his eyes. Writer watched him, seeing him paler than usual, with dark circles under his eyes particularly marked. He looked tired.

He was.

"What's up? Haven't you slept lately? "

"Oh, Papi, are you worried now ...? I am moved. "

Rick stood up, before crossing his arms: "It has to be senile dementia."

Publisher didn’t move, watching him as he stood. He was still smiling, his smile, in that strange moment of silence.

Rick bit the inside of his cheek, before shrugging: "Well? Can we go?"

Publisher lowered his glasses to his face, before getting to his feet, stretching with another yawn and cracking his neck. He left a twenty dollars on the table, just as Writer had done with Designer earlier, heading out of the local with him.

Yes, he was definitely tired.

Book distribution was a really good link to grab: four galaxies, hundreds of bookstores, translators for as many alien languages and an excellent percentage of margin for Stuttering Books.

They hadn't had such a good deal for a long time, considering that Writer could barely pay his bills (although for reasons more internal to his personal agreement with Stuttering).

There were only two problems: the sales manager who had been talking continuously for at least twenty minutes was fucking boring and Publisher ...

Well, luckily the sunglasses hid his fully lowered eyelids.

Writer kept kicking him under the table to keep him awake, receiving only annoyed and fortunately low grunts as an answer. He had no idea what the fuck the three-eyed alien was saying to him and it was already annoying enough to be there, even without having to hold the reins of the situation in his hand.

He was hating Publisher to death, while nodding with fake circumstance smiles to the alien, absolutely unaware of what he was saying.

He was also worried, however: Publisher was a war machine when it came to work, tireless, always ready to jump from one conference to another, never refusing an aperitif or a gala dinner. It was strange to see him like this.

It seemed almost unnatural. It was not like him.

Writer put a hand on his arm, under the table, slightly shaking, pinching him almost: he had to wake up, fuck !! He could not sign on his own.

Publisher muttered something, before dropping his head on hims, leaning on him. Rick blushed slightly, unnerved by that unwanted physical contact, inappropriate and above all in front of a client, in a workplace. Rick moved him, putting him straight, while the customer fortunately had not noticed anything, in an immense monologue on their marketing strategies.

"Wake up, asshole" Rick whispered softly, while Publisher smiled in his sleep, murmuring in a soft voice.

Publisher repeated the phrase he said at breakfast: "I know you want it..."

Writer put his hand over his face, hiding the embarrassment of that moment and those words. And of that tone.

He had no idea what the fuck he was dreaming about. And it was much better this way.

"Me too, Owly, me too ..."

Writer looked at him sideways, out of the corner of his eye, for a long moment.

Yes, it was so much better this way.

Publisher had woken up just in time for the signing of the contract, before walking around outside the meeting room, with Writer walking beside him, fucking pissed off.

While Publisher claimed to be well and not sleepy at all, Rick snatched the car keys from his hands, forcing him to rest for at least an hour. He would not have taken a taxi to take him home, nor would he have been responsible for a fatal accident.

Publisher, too tired to argue, had fallen asleep in the passenger seat, crossing his arms and resting his head on the seat.

Writer was there, in the driver's seat, in his personal hell. He perfectly remembered what it was like to drive that car... How the steering wheel was to the touch, how hard the pedals were, soft steering, snappy engine. He inhaled deeply, swallowing, trying to kill the memories that were going to close his throat.

They had fucked an incalculable number of times on those seats, on the hood, against the doors ...

Writer swerved more violently than he wanted, feeling Publisher growl, annoyed.

He didn't think it would be that difficult.

So painful.

Under his thumb he felt a mark on the rough steering wheel: he remembered it, it had been him, when he had scratched it so hard while he had an orgasm, ruining the leather. Publisher wasn't even angry.

He loved that car, but he wasn't even angry.

...

Writer drove silently home, with no expression on his face, on a journey that seemed infinite.

"I said I'm not sleepy, I rested in the car ..."

"Twenty minutes? Are you fucking kidding me? ”

"Papi, if this is a way to take me to your bed there was no ne-"

"Rick!"

Writer and Publisher, on their driveway, looked up to see Designer out there waiting. He was waiting for them. Or rather, he was waiting for him.

Writer barely smiled, with Publisher's gaze on him, hidden by his sunglasses. He remembered that smile, very well. It still hurt.

"Hey, Nerd. We have guests ... Someone made the small hours and has to take a nap. "

Designer looked at Publisher, who returned his gaze with arrogance, distance. Superiority.

"You trained your little dog well ... He even comes to greet you at the door."

"I c-can even bring the n-newspaper in the morning," said Designer, more cheeky than usual, snatching a chuckle from Rick, who looked at Publisher with a grin.

"Becareful, he bites."

Rick and Designer entered the house, followed by Publisher who raised a corner of his mouth, furious.

Immediately, the owner of Stuttering Books regretted going in there.

That house had the scent of Writer, very strong and penetrating, but also a sweet and cloying taste that mixed with his, filling the room in the same way.

Publisher entered, without hearing what they were saying to him, concentrating on the details of the room: he spoke of Writer, was full of books, objects of his travels, paintings. But something spoiled that atmosphere: socks on the floor, a tablet on the sofa, boxes of Chinese food on the table, coffee cups everywhere.

Publisher woke up suddenly, hearing Writer's voice urging him to sit on the sofa, to lie down for a while.

He had never been more awake.

“Thanks, Papi, but this house smells like Mortys. You know I have a sensitive sense of smell. I wouldn't be able to sleep with that mierda. "

Designer was silent, staring at him while he was pouring him a glass of water. Writer also looked at him without saying a word, with an expression in his distant gaze. Disappointed. Hurted. Angry.

Publisher could have been better than he was.

But he never was.

"Then you'd better go."

The two looked at each other for a long moment, a strange moment in which the desire to stay would have been only sadism.

A sadism, however, which both still needed.

Publisher drew his usual smile again, confident and heedless, before raising his hand.

“See you in the office tomorrow. Be late and you're fired. "

Publisher turned, feeling both of them gaze on his back.

In the driveway in front of the house, his smile was canceled immediately, leaving room only for anger. He clenched his fists as his knuckles crackled together, noisy.

In the car, he again felt that smell he knew by heart, without a trace of anything else. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

The car wash was the last stop before returning home. Ready not to sleep again.


	16. Welcome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by Yusunaby

‘’Late. I know I’m late but is not my fault. Some asshole delayed the paper roll and I had to go myself for it until the ware...’’ Publisher was sweaty, streesed, distracted; he seemed to have run an olympic race and indeed, he ran from the parking until the 5th floor meeting room, the elevator would have been slower ‘’...did I say that pets were allowed?’’

‘’Well, you’re here now; I must be’’ barked Writer while Designer hugged his tablet against his chest, feeling the pressure of being unwanted.

‘’No, no, sorry but I don’t want whor- _mortys_!, mortys on this meeting’’ the director standed at the door, openning it gently ‘’He has to leave’’

‘’Whores? Mortys?!’’ Editor was already excited by those words, Counter was blowing himself air for the unbearable heat on the room. The cool air wasn't working correctly.

Writer frowned finding imposible to stay on that shitty place with _that_ specific person. He got up without saying a single word and grabbed the child’s hand, ready to leave together without hesisate. But Designer couldn’t stand the idea of making Writer angry at work for his fault, unaware that he was just being pushed away for a whicked behavior. However, he tryied to release himself from his boss to reply.

‘’It’s ok, Rick. I can wait you outside’’ he did his best, but his voice was seasoned with sadness ‘’I don’t want to ruin your work’’

‘’Well done, puppy’’ said Publisher, arms crossed at the door ‘’You’re wise, now borrow me your Papi and I’ll return him to you when we finish’’

‘’Fuck off, I’m not gonna stay’’ Writer, tired of the same old games.

‘’As you want. More money for us. You’re out’’ Publisher surrendered, leaving the door open and going to his desktop to start the meeting by conecting the 3D projector.

It happened that, the more Publisher was an asshole, the more Writer felt angrier towards him. Against his fresh and always careless rude personality and his stupid racist atittude. Designer only wanted to help and he was probably the proudest after the very director on working at that Editorial. It was unfair, it was a blackmail, it didn’t worth the money that he could save by taking that project. But bills said otherwise.

Morty left the room feeling colorless; Writer had his nerves boiling but stayed.

Then he found himself alone, on a empty hallway that seemed to be endless. Whiter. Morty started to walk around to find some fun within the nothing and the boredom. He thought on going to check the always marvel printing room, but it was closed also. Not even his tablet without internet conection would save his nigth for being one of the largest.

Morty was so bored, he had already bought and drink coffee, went to the bathroom to wash his hands and make funny faces at the mirror, checked the empty office of writer -twice, but nothing seemed to change his luck. He was about to bought his second coffee, when he heard a noise from upstairs. It seemed to be a weak laugh coming out from that forbiden floor.

The sixth.

The death archive.

If Designer would have to be crowned by an adjective, it would be certainly watcher. He met and learned every single room from that building within his possibilities. The first floor, as example, was the reception and the sales department, only clientes and sellers remained there. It was minimalist, quiet and profesional, Designer could always felt those tickles when he saw other Mortys on the place

but he was the only one with credentials to go up and down on that place, even if they were really from his Writer. It always made him to felt different, unique.

The second was a warehouse, a place where the paper and supplies took lodging. It had a port on the center and a big dangerous permanently-opened green portal for ships and delivery services. It was also where the printed books were loaded into the tracks for be sent to endeless dimensions. It was not his favorite place that all anyway. The Rick's working there were rude and perverts; always making him obsenes signals to get his attention. They didn't go often, luckily.

The third floor was the printing room, and Nena, the insignia printer and soul of the place, was placed within almost the entire room, surrounded by regular printers like bytrack paper and 3D resources for the covers. That Offset was the motor of the entire Editorial, and was perpetually running and printing, as a happy heart giving heartbeats. Second by second, book by book.

The forth one housed offices, and was also the most visited by the guys. It happened that endless cubicles were fillied by unknowns Ricks, writing and taking orders to clients who needed assistance to publish works like 'Million Morty's away from Love' or 'The Rickest sausages ever'. Then, at the corner, were the main offices of the team. Human resources, Editorial department, and the biggest and most beautiful office for the writer star of the site.

It had a balcony, a long space to work with the best tech and a small lounge. Its large windows of crystal showed an incredible landscape of the Citadel, looming in peace. At night, the lighting was sotisficaded and actually, imposible gorgeous to be just a workspace. However, it was a waste of space since Writer prefered to work at his 3 x 3 meters hot office at home than remaining in that place. As he used to do before.

The fifth was the second main floor to be. It contained several aulas for meetings and also the luxury office of the director. Some rooms that seemed to be cancelled offices and his favoritest vending machine and coffeemaker. It was really neat and spacious, same as Publisher's office. Morty had never go in there, and it wasn't either between his plans, but his curiosity would end have killing him someday. The hallways had benchs and the view through the windows was astounding.

The seventh floor was the auditorium. Almost like a conference room that seemed to be a theater. It was for renting or for official meetings, but Morty only could picture in his mind how fancy the events would be, since those doors were always closed for Morty's and a big red signal forbidding the entry to kids was his stop. Of course, it wasn't a kindergarten, only Rick's could have known which talks were given in that amazing place. Nonetheless, Designer could enter as long as the room was empty.

Finally the roof, he had never been there but he could swear that the landscape of the Citadel from that view was unforgettable. The whole building towered the avenue with a mix between elegance and class that could be seen from anywhere near. Sometimes, Morty could feel the pride of belonging to such important company running over his young and easily-to-impress body; others, he just felt the urge of giving up and run away from that hell. And never come back.

And indeed, the sixth missing floor was only available as a tale -on his mind. The ineffable closed floor, the only clean button on the elevator. He didn't even think that Publisher goes often. Once that he asked his Rick why they never went to that place, Writer get pissed and said that it was only a death archive with all the books printed on that Editorial. A copy of every single one of them. A forbidden library that kept jealously tight the secret within his walls. Morty could only expect crimes over such a mystery.

That was the _why_ he was so concerned by that sound, he convinced himself of attribute that noise as his own imagination; and not a laugh. It would have been creepy. But at the moment he heard it again just got freeze. It was been a high pitched voice, a Morty one. Worse. And if something was clear as water in Stuttering Books, is that Morty's weren't allowed.

What a time to be alone, at night.

Designer swallowed, deciding between stay still there or beg to the director for letting him in to the meeting; and it was his struggle, when suddenly heard the voice clear asking for help. A shiver chill swing his body, he was the one alone on that hall. When he felt his blood got icy, he was already going up the stairs. Quivering before the fear in each step, and feeling incredibly awkward with his own courage of following that omen.

A fence of metal welcomed his sight, it was dark but he could see some light within the bottom of the room. It contained, as his mental photography said, thousands of books ordered by infinites stands. His fear suddenly faded, mixed slowly with amazement. He approached to the door and grabbed the railings with both hands, as a prisioner longing his freedom; but as a nerdy teen looking for the undying leyend of a secret library. The door was open.

Morty, before being brave and mischievous, was respectful and polite. He knew that entering that creepy room, alone, without permission; was totally a mistake. But he could help himself for moving just a couple of steps forward, just to satisfy his yelling-curiosity and his raw doubts about that place. It was all dirty, dust and bugs over the sancrosanct books; like a graveyard of failed ideas.

Designer was already feeling his belly twisted. He could offer himself to clean. Free if they want. He followed the dying yellow light until the bottom, just to be sure of haven’t missed any detailed, but a book perfectly placed on the ground caughted his atenttion. He grabbed it to check it. It was clean, yet was a little old; its cover, green as the editorial itself, and about his content, a childish novel.

‘’What are you doing here?’’ it wasn't weird for him to spoke to the books, his only friends before have meeting Writer ‘’Aren't you feeling lonely?’’

Designer gave the book a tender smile, looking sideways as searching for cameras before taking the book with him a turn over his own steps to go down and read it on the awaiting. It wasn´t a thievery, he was going to return it just on the same place he found it, the guilty was already eating alive when he opened the door to go downstairs. But he could not move a single step more, not after the voice.

‘’ _Y-Y-Yes, I-I am’’_

Morty heard it clear. Behind him. He turned his head around, quivering and feeling his legs as strong as water; he swear had saw a silhouette by the corner of his eyes. A Morty. Designer stand the urge to faint, and turned his upper body around feeling the goosebumps over his entire body. Right in front of him, was a Morty very similar to him, maybe smaller, standing with watery eyes and hugging himself.

A green t-shirt, as particular sign.

Designer remained in silence, staring at him with wided eyes and a new countenance he didn’t know he could do: terror. By instict, he pressed the book against his chest with shaking hands, holding the last of his breaths to don’t scream and go out running and revealing his silly adventure on the sixth floor. No wonder why nobody went there, if ghosts could be playing around.

‘’M-My n-name is li-lime’’ the sad face of that little boy drew a shy smile, and he held a tiny and semitransparent hand to Designer ‘’Y-you t-took my fa-favoriest b-book’’

Morty look down at the book, it was actually a dirty bunch of paper, his chest was covered by dust. He drop it to the ground, inmediately feeling sick and crazy. It could not have happening to him, he should have been sleeping on one of those bench out of the aulas, of maybe Editor finally managed to put drugs on his coffee. No, that vision could not be real.

But it was. As soon as the little boy grabbed the book, it returned to be a regular one. After a _thank you_ that he could barely recognize by the stuttering on the voice he felt still freeze, but as soon as the time landed over the scene, he started to lose his fear. Anyway a Morty could never represent evil, at least, not that kind child that was as scared as him. Designer blinked to look at him better, he -or it- seemed to be suffering.

‘’L-L-Lime...’’ the artist swallowed, shaking off the dust of his clothes, his position wasn’t the best to talk either ‘’W-what are you d-doing here?’’

‘’R-Re-reading’’ was his response, looking at him with giant wided eyes ‘’I-I-I am.. lo-loneney, w-anna be m-my fri-friend?’’

The last strew he needed. Morty was unable to react beyond nodding, the gentle smile on the little boy countenance gave him more confidence to stand there with him, and after all; phantom or not, having a friend was also what he was looking for. Lime turned around and started to walk into the booksellers again, Designer followed his lead, feeling a mix between fear, guilt, curiosity and trust.

At least, none of them would be alone that night.

...

...

...

‘’...in the following weeks. This stupid event is gonna be the whole day, but according to Counter the place is the-’’ Writer opended the door of their house, Designer entered and turned the lights on, mechanically, but with a numb countenance that caughted Rick out of guard ‘’Fine, What is it, Pup?’’

‘’What?’’ Designer was about to went up the stairs because it was beyond midnight and he really needed rest, but ignoring the question of his boss would be lethal ‘’Nothing, sorry. I’m just tired’’

Writer grabbed Morty by the wrist and look at him with a pissed look, ready to a apply him an interrogatory, but once again he found himself venting his angry on the boy, without noticing it. Fortunally, his upset expression settle down when he saw the concern in those big brownie eyes.

Under this cry for help, Rick didn’t release his wrist or say something else, he just moved on and walked the stairs up to go to bed, leading his Morty to do the same as him. Of course, they both were tired enough to still talking about work on the last hunt of intimacy they could have. Sleep.

Yet, despite of being hugged and warmth, Designer could not sleep that all. He was overthinking on that boy he met, on what they talk and on the weird but incredible specific favor he asked him

moments about to leave. That stuttering sentence that stole his mind for that night. And what a night.

He was thinking so hard with his eyes tight closed. Lodgning thoughts about the past and history of his new friend, when he felt Writer moving next to him. It was not strange, the bed was small and after all he just needed to flex. What he didn’t expect was feeling his breath, tobaco and manly scented, crashing against his ear and kissing him. Gently, slow, silently, as considering not to wake him up.

Did his best to hold a moan when those experts lips went down over his neck. His body was tired and loose, Writer moved his head to make more room to suck, while Morty felt urge to groan due to the tongue running and devouring his soft skin. Pretending that he sleep was fine when they go to sleep after a fight, but under a uncertain scene like that, he could only guess if it was a wet dream or a cruel joke to punish him. After all, he went alone to a dangerous forbbiden zone. Again.

Designer couldn’t help himself to hold a noise when the hand of Writer got into his sweater to stroke his bareskin; his touch was hot and rough. Morty was keeping his breath so hard, and that hand was lowering to his abdomen but not even close to his surely hard erection. Then stop. As suspecting he was awake and giving a short break to comprobe he wasn't.

Morty was facing the wall, he could only felt Writer smelling his hair again and then hugging him tighter against at, what the boy thought, was a strong boner. But nothing else, just seconds went by before hearing some tiredly snores. And Morty could not sleep after that contact, nor even think forward the _why’s_ **that** happened. That night. It had been, indeed, one of the largest on his life.

...

...

...

It happened that the following day, the first thing Morty felt the urge to do was talk with Publisher. About the favor that the boy asked and what happened on that floor. But the director was not the kind of person that fatherly tells you a lullaby before sleep, he was completely drowned by work and the only weak second they could talk was about work. While Publisher walked from the hall to the elevator, calling at phone and barely putting him atenttion, again.

‘’Decirme qué? It better be quick, no time for bullshit, did you check the last corrections? Nena is out of cyan, don´t put blue on the cover’’

Morty nodded at his command, but after that he could not reply. Publisher, still at phone, just looked at him uninterested while the doors of the elevator got closed. At least, he didn't get yelled, or was ignored. Designer remained on silence looking at the doors of the elevator closed and the floors running, he definitely wasn’t ready to face Writer. Not now, that the red marks on his neck had sense.

They barely spoke on the morning, before work, and on the road, Writer told him all about that important meeting they have to set. Nothing about the incident of that last night, not a clue of remorse, neither mock. Just as natural as always. However, Designer got his thoughts washed when Editor exit the elevator with a Mc Donals box and a weird long package.

‘’Dicksigner! how lonely, where’s your pimp?” it would be pretty offensive if it wasn’t because Editor lend him a happy smile and a little box with fries. Morty doubted before even talk to him.

‘’D-Do you know something about a g-gho-, kid, a Morty, on the sixth floor?’’

‘’A Morty?’’ Editor seemed to think hard, as wanting to remember something ‘’Weren’t you the only slut between us?’’

Morty lowered his eyelids, finding imposible to talk with an adult like him. Anyway, he wanted anwsers, and since Publisher wasn’t giving him anything, he could do a sort of research. There is no way to go straight to the forbidden floor without been catched, at day. Only a Rick with credentials could go, and despite taking it as a joke for first, Editor was foolish enough to go and check if his nerves didn’t cracked or he bacome crazy. Designer just wanted to be sure.

‘’Yes. He’s a lonely Morty on the sixth floor, he told me that Pub-

‘’Vai tomar no cu! A new Morty being alone and I’m here wasting my time?’’ Editor gave Morty the Mc Donald’s box and the strange wet package before turning around and jumping into the elevator again, feeling horny already ‘’Six you said?’’

But when Morty reacted, Editor was already going alone. Not that he wanted to go with him, but Editor didn’t even heard his questions. Now he could’nt know if there was a mystery tale about the kid, or was just a dream that was lasting to much. He walked defeated until Editor office to drop his things there, but the following door, administration and human resources, was open. Finally someone to talk about his paranormal experience.

Designer knocked the door open after have left the Editor’s meal on his desktop and finding that the large wet box conteined a used dildo. Counter allowed him to get in, concerned by the pale skin and dark shadowed eyelids of the child, as a pretty copy of the writer. Of course, he didn’t sleep and now was pissed. He entered the room and find shelter on a seat in front of the accountant, whom gladly placed his hands together and stared at him with a nervious smile.

‘’W-What ha-happened, s-son?’’

‘’Counter have you ever seen a gho-ghost M-Morty here?’’ the boy started to feel incredible awkward, the scary countenance of the older man warned him to stop, but he didn’t ‘’...Over the sixth floor?’’

‘’Gho-ghost o-on the Sisixth f-f-ffloor?!’’ Counter was not longer smiling, was drowned on fear ‘’D-did you w-went to- the-the archi-ve a-a-alone?’’

Morty nodded, displaced.

Counter grab the phone and pressed some numbers; the connotador called Writer. By the following minutes, the administrator was gently scolding Writer for having left Morty out of his sight, letting him go alone to the only floor labeled as restriction area. He also expressed gently his worry about their health; that busy and overworked lifestyle was ruining them, without deal.

Then Counter told Writer that the lack of sleep leaded Morty to imagine Ghosts, and it had to be fixed soon. He refered them to the nursing on the floor above, but Writer was too busy to take Designer to check, besides, he was unbearable angry with himself for not being able to take care of his Morty.

That was how they just ended on the novelist office, again.

‘’Next time you decide to misbehave and go to a DANGEROUS place alone, tell me before, to see if I can get a replacement sooner’’ and it happened that Rick was overstressed, barely watching his words, he had a hand covering his eyes with frustration, he other, holding his glasses ‘’Don’t cha’ have

enough work to be wasting our time on ‘ghost’ childish stories? Why you went to scare Counter?’’

Morty was about to cry. He could stand anything but that disappointed voice towards him. It hurted, and his intention wasn’t even that. He never wanted to get Rick into more troubles, and he did. Now he was about to face the consequences of his acts. Desginer just covered his face, ashamed enough to don’t look Writer at his eyes. Just a night ago, everything seemed to be different.

It was all Publisher’s fault. If he wouldn't have let him outside the meeting, he wouldn’t have met that boy. If the head of the team would have listened him on the hall, he wouldn’t be there in troubles. If Morty could only understand why that boy begged him so hard to do that favor; he would have been sure of what he was doing from the beggining.

The fact is that the kid seemed to be so sad and desesperate, ghost or not, he offered to be his friend.

_And friends don’t let you down._

Designer finally frowned, tired of that situation and feeling his body heavier for the physical tiredness and his mental fatigue. He got up, once that Writer finished his cathedra about rules, he was free to go out of the office; really drowned on frustration. Rick yelled at him from the office, but he didn’t turned back. Just ran away as a coward, problably holding his tears. He was be about to be punished anyway, but if he didn´t complete the favor of the boy, his suffering would be double since his own conscience was twice severe with him.

...

...

...

At the third time. Publisher oppened his door after have listened the knock for third time. He seemed as tired as stressed as always, but he wasn’t wearing his glasses, so the dark circles around his clear coloured eyes were more evident. No green jacket, just a cigarette half ended between his fingers and a glued celphone performing a call on his other hand. He look sideways hopping to find his guest, but as soon as Designer called him again, shyly from his short height, Publisher lowered his eyes to see him ruin his barely happy countenance.

‘’...wait, gimme a sec’’ said to his phone, then muted the call and stared at Morty again, resting an arm on the border of the door ‘’It better must be something critical important, qué quieres niño?’’

‘’I-I have to te-tell you something a-about L-

‘’Hold on, where’s is Writer?’’ Publisher made a unpleased grin, searching on his celphone throught the camaras to find the novelist going office by office, problably seeking him. _What a waste of time-_ he thought, balancing the weight of his body again before grabbing the door to close it ‘’Nevermind, seems boring, I’m working and none of you putos mortys never know how-

‘’Lime Morty!’’

Publisher wided his eyes, the door that was about to be slamed reopened; the eyes of a murderer about to kill. Designer came too far to leave it all behind, he felt to rush of speak before Writer find him. He was already into lot of problems, risking himself by the pure act of being there alone.

He swallowed again before starting to talk, but got grabbed from the shirt and forced to enter the room. This time, the door almost got broken for the unnecessary strength applied at closing it.

‘’How the fuck you know about Lime’’ Publisher was grabbing him too roughly, lifting him with a hand from the highneck swearter he was wearing, Designer met the description of real fear within his anxiety ‘’Was it Writer? Was it Counter? VAMOS DÍMELO!’’

A ghost was nothing to fear agaisnt the director being angry. Ilegally furious. Morty couldn’t touch the ground, but could felt the pain frozing his answers. Without knowing it, he went straight to reopen an old wound for the owner of that building; he didn’t know but the silence between them was running as blood. Designer tryed to explain but nothing came up of him if not stutterings, he was almost facing Publisher’s face when the adult openned his hand and left him fell in the ground. As garbage.

‘’I-I saw him he-here’’ finally said Morty, sobbing, while Publisher walked until his desktop to call Writer inmediately, so the kid was a tool before his eyes and Writer, whatever his last fight was, just crossed the line by ordering the boy to talk about it ‘’He w-was on the si-sixth f-floor li-library’’

‘’You went to the sixth floor?’’ Publisher frowned even more, with his nerves boiling and his mind totally out of focus. He was calling Rick at his office but nobody answer ‘’Dios mío. Law requires not to kill employees, but I’m firing Writer right now, and it’s gonna be your fault’’

‘’L-Lime said you build that l-library only for h-him, but he felt lo-lonely without your visits... He said that y-you stopped go-going to read him’’

The line of Writer was on, the novelist accepted the call but nothing came up from Publisher’s lips, he was stunned and incredible empty, unable to understand how Morty managed to know that info that not even Counter, his confident, knew. Writer was asking him for the boy at the line,but Publisher rang the call, surrendering before his deepest desire of know more about his son; even if were lies.

‘’Did he-’’ his once strong voice became desesperately calmed, allowing room to soft words ‘’Did he-

‘’I-I didn’t want to enter to that f-floor, but it hear something and I... h-he was there’’ Designer clenched his fists feeling awkwardly brave to talk with his director, knowing that perhaps, his behavior would affect him beyond he could fix ‘’Lime a-asked me to tell y-you something im-important’’

But instead of getting mad, or reacting offended, Publisher walked until him, almost crawling his feets over the carpet. He knelt in front of Designer to look at him with wided white eyes, as have seen an epiphany. He grabbed the boy’s shoulders to don’t felt his hands shake, and stared at him with a tranquil countenance imposible to repeat again. Not within working hours.

‘’What was it?’’

‘’He t-told me that he was fine, o-only misses you. He wanted m-me to say you t-that...’’ suddenly the boy had the impulse to cry, but he wasn't even sad, maybe for stress, might be for the whole situation, or the uninvited presence on the room that looked at him with a grateful smile ‘’It was not your fault’’

Publisher lost his grip, knowing perfectly that none of his friends would dare to play with that taboo topic, not even Editor. He approached to Designer in silence, doubing with his entire being the words spoken, but finding in those stuttering words a slice of that cute boy that once he could take care of. Without a warning, Publisher hugged Designer and buried his hurted soul into that contact, feeling the scent of Lime over room. Morty was just a messenger, after all.

Then Writer kicked Publisher away from his Morty, feeling his rage become concern while he stared at the scene with wided eyes and finally recovering his pissed countenance. The kick didn’t hurt Publisher, it only broke the hug. The director stood up and put his glasses on. Walking without a word to his desktop to grab his phone. Writer was so confussed, same as Morty, whom didn’t finished to undertand what just happened on that moment.

‘’Your puppy got lost, he’s fucking cry baby’’ shoot Publisher as reply to all the yelling of Writer ‘’I called you, Owly, but you were busy kissing you own ass, I guess’’

‘’Morty if this asshole did something to you, tell me now and here, I’m gonna rip his face of if he-

‘’N-No’’ replied Morty without letting him end ‘’I-I-I’m sorry for ru-running like that, I-I-I just wa- wanted to-

‘’No. We will talk about that at home, dai’’ Writer pushed Morty by the back to lead him go out of the office and ordered him to exit.

Once alone, the novelist walk straight until his boss with a terrible grin. Ready to get the real answers.

‘’Why he came up here?’’ Writer stood in front of him, but Publisher was already on a call, placing an arm behind his nape and his crossing his legs on his desktop.

‘’Not your business, papi, now lemme do my work and take away your pet’’ Publisher turned around and made a gesture with the hand as farewell, it was impossible to talk with him when he was on that sassy mood. Of course he had to be.

It was not difficult to conect some of the pieces of that puzzle. Whenever Morty gets along with Publisher, he became a little more coocky than his actual personality; so was Publisher’s fault and not his. The weird behavior between both made him felt pissed off, and a little bit jealous, somehow. Rick left the office when the head of the editorial began to talk loud with his client, making obvious that he wasn’t gonna anwser any question.

...

...

...

The railing was rusty and old; it had been years since the last time he went there to read. It was true. He promised _him_ the biggest place in the building, and didn’t lie. That archive began as a library for him, for them, for the moments that they spent together, even if was only Publisher after work, reading for an empty couch in front of him. And pretending to be listened.

But he stop going.

Suddenly being too busy, lately being more unhappy as to care of the only therapy that worked on him. That place started to shatter him from an unknown time from now, and going there was painful.

Then, with his feelings moved, and his ashamed countanance for have been avoiding that place, Publisher approached to the main interrumptor to turn the lighting on. It was a pretty but forgotten library, and yet, maybe the biggest treasure of his Editorial. Publisher walked slow until the old couch and shake the dust off to take a sit. With a new book on his hands.

‘’Somebody told me that you miss me, and that’s terrible. I’m so sorry, Limey’’ Publisher landed himself into the couch, not sure of how to behave and finding strange to be talk alone on that empty room, again ‘’Missing someone that you love with your entire soul is...

_Unbearable._

‘’...and remaining alone is also like that’’ Publisher ran his sight over the place, his mind getting an insight as he oppened the book and get ready to read ‘’I’m sorry, I’ve being pretty alone too, lately’’

...

...

...

Luckily for Designer, his adventure just costed him a everlasting scold and extra work on home, like, making dinner and washing the dishes for a week. But Writer kept his tranquil personality after that fight. He was able to rest and then got focused again on his tasks. Normality seemed perfect.

The following Monday of that weird weekend, they found the Stuttering Books entrace crowed. A big opening for the largest library at the sixth floor was taking place. Publisher was in middle being the star, Writer rolled his eyes and proceed to go only to his office. Morty could not help feeling excited.

The entrace was open and the new personal was getting ready to rent those once forgotten books.

He was about to enter too to the building too, trying to reach Writer to follow him wherever he went this time, as they accorded. By the time he crossed the crowd, always feeling that anxiety running over him when people was around, he felt a hand grabbing his shoulder. It was been Publisher, from behind, looking at him through his black sunglasses.

‘’Hey, where the fuck you think you´re going?’’

Morty felt a chill downing his back, that charming smile failed on ease the memory of that very boss, drowned on anger, yelling at him so bad.

‘’To-to-to Writer´s o-office’’ confesed as reply, while his Rick, on the stairs, noticed his ausence. ‘’None employee can go over there without using a identification, idiota’’

Publisher throw a card to Morty, but he fail on catching it on the air and he had to knelt down to grab it from the ground. It was his own credential of the Editorial building. Official. Designer felt his heart stop, looking back at the director with eternal amazement printed on his face. Stunned. Unable to thank the gesture that he didn’t even had dreamed before.

However, Publisher was already far away between the crowd, yelling at the workers and signing every document that Counter previously checked. By the time that Writer reached the scene to grab Designer and go upstairs. He noticed the smile on Morty ‘s face and sew a new interaction between his boss and him. It wasn’t forbidden, but was still uncomfortable to look those two talking.

And that was how, they alone at his office and getting ready to leave the building again, Rick frowned at the picture of Morty smiling at the window. Writer felt the impulse of wanting knowing answers, but his concern couldn’t be obvios. It was curiosity, indeed, the mask for the inner greedy owl that wanted that shining smile only for him.

‘’So? What did he said to you?’’

Morty turned his head to look at Writer with a simple cheery countenance of happiness.

‘’Welcome to Stuttering books’’


	17. Jellyfish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shibuya "Tattoo" Rick belongs to Dimension_Tanuki
> 
> Chapter by RickishMorty  
> Drawings by Dimension_Tanuki

"What do you mean he's good despite being a Morty?"

"What I said".

"You realize it sounds racist, don't you?"

"It didn't want to be."

"Yeah, sure..."

"You're prejudiced, Writer."

"Me?!"

Writer and Shibuya were seated at a table in a club that was giving snake jazz, with soft and relaxing lights. Writer had a bitter drink before him, while Shibuya a mint tea corrected with Sambuca. Among them, Writer's latest book: Rick always gave them to the tattoo artist, autographing them all in a personal dedication and taking advantage of that gift for a drink together. The book had the cover of Designer and was the topic of confrontation between the two.

"I just said that Mortys are not known to be artists, while here there is a beautiful hand ... An intention, an appropriate use of colors".

"Maybe they are not known to be artists because they are used to being a lackey. Your Unicorn, for example: do you give him the opportunity to express himself?"

"Give him a Morty and he will express himself as freely as possible ... His knots are extremely complex."

Shibuya smiled, taking a sip of tea, while Writer lowered his eyelids, in a silent comment.

"Shibari is an art, Writer".

"Of course..."

Shibuya grinned, jingling the cup on the saucer.

"You should try..."

Writer rolled his eyes, looking away and resting his face on one hand.

The place was teeming with Rick, plus a few sporadic aliens: Tattoo loved to come there, it was a good place to "feed". The place was teeming with fish that could catch his hook. Or, to put it better, end up in his trap.

Writer turned again, looking sideways at that cup of tea: that was his secret weapon, which no Rick could resist even if he wanted to.

Drug.

Tattoo’s strategy was simple and lethal: attracting prey, flirting with him, bewitching him and then ending him by offering a "correct" drink. Afterwards, only the night and a tattoo artist ready to mark the skin of his victim.

Writer did not approve, but they had faced that speech many and many times, and in the end the friendship between them had won, together with a tacit consent: I know what you do, I don't want to be part of it, I judge you, but continue to do so.

It was a silent pact never signed out of voice, but that they both knew.

The moment Tattoo began to "hunt", Writer silently stepped aside, returning home and leaving him free.

"Have you already pointed someone ...?" he asked him with an arched eyebrow, almost making his displeasure towards the strategy that was certainly already in place.

Tattoo sucked in his Kiseru, letting go of the smoke high as he looked around, predator. Writer knew his tastes: he liked the naive, unwary, reckless Rick. About the Mortys, on the other hand, he didn't care at all.

"That guard over there doesn't look bad... So confident, so bold. Who is too convinced, is the first to take a misstep, you know? "

"Oh, are you also a psychologist now?"

Tattoo smiled, before tapping the pipe with his index finger, making the ash fall into a saucer.

"If you had brought your cute accountant to me on a silver platter, I would not have to look around so much..."

"If you drugged Counter, he could also have a heart attack."

"Maybe I wouldn't need to drug him." Tattoo grinned.

"Ah, do you do it just for _need_? I thought it was a pleasure. "

"There are exceptions."

“Leave Counter alone. He's not that guy. "

"Oh, I know well. You're jealous?"

"No".

"Well, you should."

"What do you mean?"

“You know that if they tell me no, it's no. And the reason he told me in the past has always been one... "

"Don't he like Orientals?"

Tattoo took another puff from his pipe, looking at Writer with a raised eyebrow that meant everything. Suddenly, his gaze changed, attracted to something or someone at the entrance.

"Speaking of jealousy ..."

Writer turned around and almost choked on the bitter he was drinking: Publisher and Editor, at the entrance, together. What the fuck were they doing there? That was absolutely not a place for them. If they went out together (rarely) it was to be each other’s wingmen: Editor chasing Mortys and Publisher chasing Ricks, or business. Or customers.

"What the fuck are those two doing here !?"

Editor was smiling, with his hands in his pockets, before realizing that there wasn't even a Morty in there. Publisher looked wary, circumspect, nervously turning and scouring the place with his eyes and clenched fists. That was not an attitude that could be read so often on him.

"Oh, don't tell me your ex is still watching you, right? What is it, did he put a GPS on you ...? Does he follow you up with a private investigator? "

"Hell, no... It will be a coincidence. They will have kicked off Editor from all the locals of the Citadel and will have only this one left. "

But it was actually strange that they were there. Writer would never have known that Publisher had heard a conversation through Stuttering's cameras, hearing him agree with Tattoo on how and where to hang out that evening. He would not have known that Publisher had forced Editor to follow him, promising to offer him all the cheese burgers for the next month. He wouldn't have known he was terribly jealous. Or yes?

The moment Editor saw Writer and Tattoo, he seemed amazed, but not sincerely. He raised a hand, pointing to Publisher and stepping forward. Writer had a heartache: why did they have to come there and spoil the evening? He sighed, draining his bitter all in one breath, while Tattoo approached him, whispering in his ear with a mischievous smile.

"Let's make your hateful and unbearable ex jealous, what do you say...?"

Writer pretended nothing, continuing to watch his colleagues approach: Publisher had sunglasses on, despite it being night. Ridiculous attempt to mask his own expressions.

"No, stop it ..."

"I’ll drive him crazy and you give me Counter’s number ..."

"No, Tattoo, stop-"

"Oh, here are the two cursed artists who play bohemians... Isn't that a little demodé like attitude?"

Publisher smiled provocatively as Editor stole a cookie brought for Shibuya's tea.

Unbearable.

Writer whispered to Shibuya, without really needing it: it was clear as the sun that the writer had changed his mind within a second.

"Ok, deal," he whispered to the tattoo artist, who smiled, before speaking.

"I wonder why you are here, then ..."

"Because we had to see who-" Publisher silenced Editor, stepping on his foot nonchalantly.

"We had a meeting near ... We had to settle for a local that was close."

Publisher shrugged, while Writer watched him as a murderer, looking forward to leaving.

"Well, take a seat. My favorite writer and I were just celebrating ... "

Tattoo smiled affably, inviting the two to sit down with an elegant gesture, while with the other arm he went on the back of the chair behind Writer's shoulders: Editor did not have it repeated twice, putting himself on the sofa next to Tattoo and stealing others two biscuits.

Publisher, on the other hand, narrowed his gaze behind the dark lenses, staring at the tattoo artist: they had never liked each other. Completely opposite characters and interests, they did nothing but making snide remarks to each other: Tattoo, then, was one of the few who managed to silence Publisher, with fine and disarming answers.

In addition, Publisher had always been jealous of their friendship: he was always suspicious.

"Oh my God, they are delicious! They taste like cardboard! They would be even better in the water"; Editor had finished all the cookies in the bowl, his mouth dripping with crumbs and his cheeks completely full. Tattoo stared at him for a second too long, before bending his face to look at him better: Writer, however, was too busy staring at Publisher still standing to notice that the tattoo artist had aimed at Editor.

At that moment a waiter arrived, quickly taking orders for everyone.

"And what would you be celebrating ...?" Publisher asked coldly, sitting in the chair next to Writer and facing Tattoo, crossing his legs.

"The new book," Writer replied simply, before taking the glass that the waiter had placed on the table, followed by Publisher, who had taken a Moscow Mule.

"And the new tattoo," Tattoo said with a smile, before Writer turned to him with wide eyes. Publisher raised an eyebrow, while Editor noisily uncorked Coca Cola before asking.

"Which tattoo?"

"No o-"

"The one I did to Writer this afternoon."

Publisher almost choke on his cocktail while Writer covered his face with one hand, looking sideways at Tattoo as he sipped his tea, satisfied.

Finally Publisher spoke, composing himself, saying only one word, addressed to both: "Where?"

"In a place you can't see," said Tattoo, with the cup in front of his mouth that hid a provocative smile from him. Publisher finally lifted his sunglasses, glaring at him. The tension was sky high.

"Under the balls?" Editor turned everyone present towards him, managing to lower the electricity in the air, but saying out loud the unspoken; "... it's very difficult to look there."

Tattoo smiled back at him, observing him from top to bottom and this time Writer had noticed: Editor was bizarre enough, but above all naive in a way of his own, to be of interest to the tattoo artist.

"You are Writer’s editor, aren't you?"

Here it is. As it was intended to prove.

"Oh, yes. I correct all the drafts of Writer! "

"Yes, and then I to correct them again..." added the writer, without attracting the attention of either of them. By now the hunt had begun.

"Oh yes? Tell me more, the correction work has always intrigued me ... You must be very important at the publishing house ".

Editor swelled his chest proudly, pointing to his chest with a thumb: "Without me those four would be lost."

Tattoo chuckled, pouring Coca Cola into his glass, while continuing to ask him questions of circumstance about his work, putting his hands on the cushion of the sofa and bringing them closer to his legs, touching them with his fingers.

Publisher and Writer stared at the scene by blinking their eyes, perplexed.

The Boss turned his face towards the writer, continuing to look at the other two: "Not to rub salt in the wound, but ... fuck, be dumped for Editor …"

"Shut up".

Publisher chuckled and Writer looked furiously at Tattoo: not even the time to enjoy his jealousy a little, that the moment had already faded. He always acted as his wingman, why he couldn't even when he first proposed it ?!

"It's true, in your lap I am MUCH taller!"

They had no idea how the conversation ended there, but Editor was on Tattoo's legs, suddenly discovering an obvious thing, while the tattooist just spread his pants with a finger to look at his ass.

"I told you ..." he grinned, with an erection that began to soar from under his kimono.

Writer shook his head, disgusted: how the fuck did he have those tastes ?! I mean, Editor was ... Editor. Could understand Counter, but Editor ...

Publisher was covering his mouth, refraining from laughing at the scene in front of him, but especially because of Writer's expression. He always managed to lose, one way or another.

"Stop that".

"I didn't say anything."

When Tattoo became a hunter, he couldn’t be distracted by anything or anyone. Suddenly, he took one of the two sticks that held his hair still, untangling them: Rick also knew that trick. It was enough to unscrew one of the stick’s ends to open what was nothing but a small container.

Editor, still sitting on one leg of Tattoo smiling at him bewitching, probably had no idea that he was being harassed. After all, its standards of behaviour were completely different.

"I want a tattoo too," Editor said, as Tattoo poured mint tea back into the cup, bringing his stick closer.

"Yeah? Which?" the tattoo artist poured the contents of the stick in the cup, a white powder that immediately dissolved in the water, unrecognizable.

"My penis".

Publisher began to laugh openly, while Writer slapped his hand in the face. The situation was paradoxical. Even Tattoo seemed taken aback.

"It's beautiful. I love it. I would like to tattoo it on my penis. "

A pause followed that request, before Writer said, "Do you want your cock tattooed on your cock?"

"No need to be vulgar."

Tattoo recovered quickly, before smiling again, returning to the attack and bringing him the cup of tea: "I could tattoo a penis on you even tonight..."

Editor's eyes lit up, in an almost childish smile, as if they had promised him ice cream.

"Really?"

"Sure..." Tattoo smiled, flattering "I advise you to drink this to relax... You will feel less pain".

"I don't mind feeling pain" if that was yet another absurd sentence from Editor, or to reciprocate that flirtation, it was not known. In any case, the Rick in orange suit drank the tea in one breath, making Tattoo's eyes light up, who had finally made his prey fall into a trap.

Editor exhaled loudly, licking his lips and swallowing, making a violent movement to the lower belly of the tattoo artist, who pulled out the portalgun immediately.

"You don't mind, do you?" he said, turning mostly to Writer, as he pushed Editor into the passage, before the drug took effect.

Writer looked at him very badly, while Publisher invited them to go, without worrying about the bill. The two disappeared inside the portal, while the writer swore to himself that he would never again act as a wingman to his friend. He was certainly not able to reciprocate when a Rick was caught.

Silence suddenly fell to the table, where Publisher and Writer were left. The latter began to roll a cigarette, nervous: he certainly did not expect his evening to end like this. Or anyway, not with that person sitting next to him.

"Where did he tattoo you?"

Publisher was more relaxed than before, but still tense. He looked at Writer, waiting for an answer that was slow to arrive. Writer snorted, licking the paper to close the cigarette, noticing the other's eyes following that movement.

"What do you care?"

"I care".

Writer lit his cigarette before puffing the smoke overhead. He replied, without looking at him. Publisher, on the other hand, did not take his eyes off him.

"Is small. Behind the ear".

Publisher held his breath: it would have been really better if it had been in a more intimate area. The ear was Writer's erogenous zone par excellence, and he knew it very well.

For a moment, the writer felt judged, looking up waryly, to see how the other looked at him.

"What is that?"

It was a jellyfish. A Porpita Porpita. He was not a guy with tattoos, quite the other: the idea of having something on him forever and that he should like forever, was totally unnatural and almost stressful. He had always had a fix for jellyfish, though. They were the only thing that could have ever been tattoo on him. When he saw the Porpita Porpita, then, it had been love at first sight: beautiful, blue, round, small. It almost looked like a jewel. And a bit, useless to deny it to his ego, it reminded him of his own eyes.

When he found it, he had gone to Tattoo very decisively, to whom he had always refused the offer to get him a tattoo, telling him that he had found it. It was the one.

Obviously, the tattoo artist, who was first and foremost an artist, had been able to interpret it very well, drawing it in his own way and affecting it forever on his skin even better, coloring it.

It was small and could only be seen if very close, hidden as it was from the auricle. For Writer himself, for example, it was very difficult to see, even in the mirror. He didn't want something flashy, or that should always be in full view. Quite the contrary.

He wanted to be able to forget it if he wanted.

"A jellyfish," said the writer, simply.

Publisher frowned and Writer could see all the possible hidden meanings running through his head that such a thing could have. They were all wrong, probably.

He simply liked it. And it reminded him of himself.

Feared, but fragile. Stinging, but delicate. Misunderstood, perhaps.

"Did he take you to bed while he did it?"

Maybe that was the hidden meaning Publisher wanted to go to. Nothing else.

Writer took another deep drag on his cigarette, thinking. The desire to hurt him, to return his own coin, was very strong.

"No".

Writer could see Publisher's gaze softening slightly, his body becoming slightly less rigid, relaxing.

Writer put out his cigarette, while Publisher continued, deciding to say everything: "I always thought there was something between you and him".

Writer looked at him: a look full of resentment, anger, a dormant grudge that perhaps had yet to explode, even after all that time.

This time, the urge to hurt him overcame.

"I never said it never happened."

The writer stood up, while the other barely opened his eyes, taken aback. He didn't even turn when Writer left the table, leaving him there. Alone. Thinking.

Editor moaned, in the throes of the drug fumes, while Tattoo lay him on his bed where he generally made his clients lie down waiting for him to mark them forever. Even Editor would have suffered the same fate, even if not wanting.

The tattoo artist lowered the other’s pants, while Editor had half-eyelids, totally prey to the delusions of the sleeping pill.

"Big... Big, remember it's big... You have to... You have to draw it big..."

Tattoo grinned, before touching his perineum with his fingers, stroking his swollen testicles, helping him to get an erection.

"I have to see it as it really is to be able to draw it well..."

"Yes... Yes, right..." Editor was smiling, on the verge of falling asleep, nodding to the tattoo artist who raised his legs, making them spread wide apart.

"I... Please, very important... The cockhead is a little crooked ..."

Tattoo untied the laces that served as a belt, looking at Editor with a feline and ravenous gaze.

"Relax ... I'm a professional."

The next day in the office, Editor continued to prick up a little above his butt, near the sacrum. Writer passed by just as he bent over to ask Counter if he had a pustule or something that could remember a venereal disease like syphilis.

The writer twisted his mouth, seeing a small black flower tattooed on Editor's skin: it was the trademark of Shibuya. And it could only mean one thing.


	18. The Lonely Novelist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We wanna tease you... :p  
> Chapter by Dimension_Tanuki

Chapter 8

-Co workers- by

Infinite Rick

Everything moves, everything flows, that’s how nature acts, I can’t stand being still, even if from outside my shell I’m seen immobile, a lifeless body, in my interior life exists, my eyes, my thoughts, my words; they flow, swinging from high to down, left to right, a battle of letters and signs that have meaning only to me.

That’s who I am: A passionate novelist, I need no modesty, that’d be lying to myself, I am good, and that’s what I am. Arrogant? no, I’m just being honest. as any other Rick, I know when I do things right.

I am good at letters as I am as a lover, nocturnal partners are like pages on a book: you taste it, know it, understand it and remember it, but at the end, you eager for the next one, sometimes better than the last, sometimes less interesting, but always with something to give in exchange of your attention.

My infinite lovers always worship my looks, they never shut up about how sexy I am, how handsome I look to them, I have to address it goes directly to my ego, It makes easier pass the night with those anonymous faces, but after the heat is cooled I wish they remember me for my mind more than my body, elderly body, slowly deteriorating, at the end only the mind will stay, when my body is gone my thoughts will remain in the form of my novels. If you want to seduce me, do it through the real me, court my mind, inflate the ego of my printed words, ask me for my secret notes, challenge my creativity…

Don’t ask me to strip like a common whore. Ask me to strip my thoughts

Beg me for an intense chat under the coffee steam And I’ll be yours for more than one night.

But that will never happen. maybe because I don’t want, I still want to be free, to experiment, to pleasure myself for indefinite time. Words makes me hard enough, my own inspiration is enough to make me spit selfish cum over my own work, but other times it isn’t enough and I need someone to use.

This week has been slow, both in inspiration and pleasure, I can’t feel my words, I can’t sense that electricity filling my insides, I need to relieve stress, but who? I have done nothing more than being trapped between paperwork, I feel so much frustration, I need to vent my seed furiously and merciless, yet I feel so few inspiration to even look for that, why can’t my solution enter through that door begging for passion, asking me to thrust their intimacy, supplicate me to convert their sacred temple in a common brothel?

It’s difficult to write a policiac novel when I can feel my pants getting smaller against my growing shaft, I need to release this energy but I’m afraid that touching myself in the office bathroom may got in in worst mood, wanting more, I need someone to use, that satisfy my selfish desire.

“uh… excuse me…”

that must be the most insecure voice followed by the weakest door knocking, a coworker, he is our lawyer, but pretty much does all the jobs here, he’s better at numbers than contracts, but his personality, a combination of cuteness and annoyance, one more than the other, depending on your mood. he can be that one you want to yell at, but sometimes he can be that one you want to hear screaming your name… now? now I need the second. But with a co-worker? that’s dangerous. I will see him tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, he’s part of my meaningless routine. He’s so fragile.

I know he wants me, that with just one order he will be my slave, happy to make me cum endlessly all over his frame. I’ve heard him calling my name when he thinks he’s alone. He desires me as much as I want to fuck anything right now.

But he loves me.

even if we are the same person we can’t be more different, he acts like a morty, insecure and soft, willing to help, caring and comforting. that pureness you want both protect and corrupt.

I can’t really focus in what he’s rambling about, his (adorable) stutter makes hard to really know what he wants, but I can’t stop being selfish, I look at him and I remember that one time I saw him masturbating to my name, one would think he is not interested in that, but that day I saw, I heard how lewd this cotton candy can be, I’m sure he even surprises himself about the need of being mine.

ah… I can feel it, my hips moving by their own using the stretch of my tightened pants, I need him now, anyone is okay for me but he, to know his little dirty secret while he speaks like the most innocent being in the world, the way he moans, I’m sure he has not known more than his hands, maybe he’s loyal to me. I want to be inside him, feel him, pleasure my ego with his worshiping hips moving just to please my hunger.

I can’t hold it no more I need release, the heat inside me can no longer be contained and without caring about tomorrow I stand up, proudly showing the bulge on my crotch, I know he wants it even if he hides behind his count books, I ask him to close the door. He knows what that means, his legs are trembling, but he obeys, shaking and sweating nervously he closes the door, making sure with awkward movements that the lock sounded, securing no surprises.

How cute, he wants it yet he can’t face me, he’s too nervous, I will feel guilt of using this virginal Rick when the heat goes, but now, now I just want to use him, and so does he.

He kneels down in front of me, as if he was dreaming for this very moment all his life, I help him unzipping my pants, the sole touch of our hands are enough to make him moan, on purpose I slid down my clothes so my full hard length hits his face once freed, I can hear his heart racing, losing no time he starts licking, like an inexperienced teen he tries to taste it all as if someone else would stole it from him, I just let him do, his pureness being corrupted is what excites me so much, his innocent eyes looking for my approval, his tongue tasting my skin, he’s good in his own way, so good that I can’t help but start to fuck his face, strong thrusts against his gagging throat, I am no monster, I let him take breaths before I violate his willing mouth over and over, moans and gags, this other version of me is a total mess, but doesn’t wants me stop, not now that he’s already being mine. and mine I will make him.

stepping away I invite him with my stare, and he knows, and he allows me. He undoes his pants, with clearly embarrassment he let his naked ass to my mercy, and we both lose our humanity and become beasts, predator and prey, I will devour him, no remains will be left, I’ll ruin him, give him half of what he wants, and satisfying all I need.

A mutual unspoken contract.

A contract signed by my shaft entering him, he moans so loud, in both pain and complete excitement, I have no time to prepare him, but he’s been prepared for this all his life, being mine, I’m making him mine, with every lunge I can feel his inside tightening, he’s trying so much in making me feel good, and he’s doing a great job, who would say even his lewd moaning is also stuttering, who would look at him and think he is capable of making this sloppy and wet sounds with his body? Only I know this.

He has cum already so many times, staining my desk, spreading his legs, he changes position by my will, he’s become my personal prostitute who accepts my attention as payment. his eyes worshiping me, I know he loves my writing, I know he is a fan of my work, and that’s why he’s so exciting, I can see how I am god to his eyes. sick love and tortuous pleasure. I hit his prostate as hard as he adores me everyday. I’m using him to relieve, and in exchange I give him this small piece of fake love in the form of liquid orgasms.

The hours pass quick, our now naked bodies can no more but still want it, we keep the fucking more for instinct than for thought. we are so exhausted but still continue, until we can move no more.

the air tells what happened in that room, opening a window will spread the rumor until it totally left the room and even us forget about this incident.

I left first, as always never looking back, I need to leave before the guilt starts, but he’s no innocent, he knows tomorrow when we met again this would be just a wet dream, I will keep with my work, and he will keep with his. as always, as the same routine. normal Co-workers who barely talk, he will continue with his unspoken love for me, and I will go and look for another bed to calm this heat.

Everything moves, everything flows, that’s how nature acts, I can’t stand being still, even if from outside my shell I’m seen immobile, a lifeless body, in my interior life exists, a selfish monster made of pure lust, I play innocent, I play the serious novelist, but inside I have a hunger never satisfied.

To be continued...

\--------------------------------------------------------------****-----------------------------------------------------

Writer: “Counter do you have the new contract? I just want to sign it and leave already”

Counter: “W-what?! w-w-w-hat co-contract?!”

Writer: “..what do you mean what contract?! that shitty slavery contract the director made you modify so I get paid less!”

Counter: “Oh.. oh! oh! yes yes! I - I s-s-sent-t It-t w-W-ith E-Editor…”

Writer: “ What are you reading? that book doesn’t look printed by us”

Counter: “NOTHING! y-you c-can g-go now!”

\----

Writer: “ And he threw me off his office! I saw that same book on one of your shelf! now I’m curious about it,”

Tatto: “hehehehe… So He IS reading it uh? I hope he liked that chapter. It was for him afterall…”

Writer: “ugh, why is everyone acting crazy today?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are teasing you while Tattoo is teasing both Counter and Writer! :P  
> Infinite Rick is the novelist alter ego of Tattoo, that use Writer as an inspirational protagonist of his stories ahah
> 
> Thank you to Dimension_Tanuki!  
> Go follow us on Twitter <3 and leave a comment


	19. Quill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by RickishMorty  
> Illustration by Yusunaby

The house was untidy. It always smelled like coffee. There were socks everywhere. The papers, pens and pencils had always been there, but now chargers, headphones and cables occupied all the tables.

Writer had never liked his home so much.

He would never have said it out loud, of course, but the relaxed smile he had in the morning while drinking the cappuccino would have been noticed by the most attentive eyes.

While reading a book, he peeked over the pages Designer, devouring his mayonnaise and cheese toast. Ugh. If that little boy hadn't gone on a diet right away, at twenty he would have had skyrocketing cholesterol. More than once Writer had suspected that he had no sense of taste, literally: perhaps he had a handicap and was born without taste buds.

The writer smiled tenderly, without being seen, before returning to his book to finish the last chapter in peace.

How naive.

"What a-are you r-reading?"

Rick didn't look at him, continuing to hold the novel between him and Designer: "Your moles glasses won't let you read the cover, avoiding harassing me?"

Designer frowned, annoyed, and Rick nearly laughed, imagining his reaction and cheeks puffing up.

"I-I mean w-what is it about."

"Writers trying to be readers, in vain," Rick said, with a sarcasm that perhaps early morning was too much even for Morty.

The little boy got off the chair too high for him, landing on the floor with the last piece of toast in his mouth, with an offended expression. Rick followed him with his eyes as he grabbed the iPad from the sofa and went upstairs.

“Oh, come on. Did you get offended?"

Morty continued to climb, chewing the last bite that made his cheeks seem even more swollen. Rick nearly burst out laughing again.

"Ok, ok, okay... Talk about moles that lead humanity to the Apocalypse".

The sound of a slamming door was all that followed, making Writer blink, realizing he had exaggerated, without regretting even a second: that expression was priceless.

Designer was on the bed, doing a tedious errand on the new Stuttering Books website template: Publisher had wanted to change everything to green, but Morty had to expect it. He had followed his tastes and not those of the client this time. For this he was now engaged in all those microcorrections that made him yawn more than once.

Still, it was better than being downstairs and being teased by Writer.

He sighed, wishing very much that he could be taken seriously when they talked. But even when they weren't talking.

Designer blushed, feeling his heart barely beating: he really wanted Rick to take him more seriously, in general ...

Morty sighed, feeling stupid and lowering his Ipad, suddenly jolting at what he found in front of him and almost caused him to die of a heart attack: a small kitten made of what looked like a thin blue smoke, floated in front of him. He rolled in the air, approaching and moving away from Designer in a sort of catch, even if the boy didn't try to catch him in the least: he stared at him, following his movements and trying not to get caught in his turn, frightened.

"R-Rick ... ?!"

No answer from below. What the hell was going on?

"Rick!"

Morty ran down, followed by the incorporeal cat: only Rick's hair showed up on the sofa, who hadn't turned around at his screams. Could it be...?

Morty ran to the couch, peering over Writer and seeing him look up at him with his scornful smile.

“Ciao, Puppy”.

Designer frowned, not understanding, before the kitten charged back to chase him, making him jump and walk away.

"W-what is it?!"

Writer turned on the sofa, resting his face on his hand while watching that chase with amusement: "Do you like it? Apparently that's what comes to my mind when I think of you ”.

Designer threw himself on the sofa next to Writer, throwing a pillow at the kitten, who immediately recovered, unharmed.

"W-what?"

Writer chuckled, before opening his big hand, letting the kitten slide over it fearlessly, spinning around on his palm.

"I must say that the magical dimension of those horny dragons also has its advantages ..." Writer looked at Designer, next to him, who watched the kitten roll between Rick's fingers, almost without fear. Indeed, he envied it a little, too.

Rick raised his other hand, making a large purple quill with a chiseled steel end appear in front of Designer's face. Blue ink stained the tip: it almost looked like ice cold from the way it smoked.

“Meet Quill. It won't be worthy of JK Rowling, but it's not bad ... "

Designer looked at Rick, as if asking for permission to pick it up, receiving an imperceptible nod from the writer. Morty took it between his fingers, respecting its delicacy and secretly making Rick proud as he studied it carefully.

"Write a word," Writer said, in what always seemed somewhere between an order and an exhortation.

"Whi-which one?"

Writer shrugged, pointing to the sheet in front of them, on the table: "The first that comes to mind."

Morty leaned over the table, toward the white sheet on which only his name was written in blue ink in an elegant handwriting he knew by heart.

Without thinking too much, Designer wrote the second thing that came to mind and that just made Writer jealous: Counter.

Immediately, a blue smoke arose from the word, identical to that of the kitten, which gave life to what looked like a beautiful quilt: a warm and soft blanket, one you could never stay without in winter.

Rick chuckled, admiring with Morty the new object that was going to wrap the kitten, who began to stuff his nails on it.

“Quite appropriate. Once, Editor wrote Counter's name and a spittoon came out. That too was quite appropriate, unfortunately ”.

Designer finally let go, in an amused and excited smile, with eyes that could not break away from the dancing smoke.

"W-what is this?"

“A pen that reads the true essence of the words we write, transforming them into what we really think or what those words remind us of. It must be said that the mood and intensity with which we write it is also very important, it could influence the smoke ".

Writer took it from Morty's fingers, brushing them with his own, losing the blush on the boy's cheeks as he bent down to write Editor's name: immediately, blue smoke leaped out, revealing a sprawling, drooling monster with a scar on its forehead. He didn't have a particularly intelligent look and looked extremely slimy even though he was incorporeal.

Designer burst out laughing, covering his mouth with his hands, watching how the being's tentacles were trying to catch the kitten. The blanket caught the monster, double-knotting over its head as the kitten hopped on it, satisfied.

"Qui-quite a-a-appropriate".

Writer giggled, satisfied and shaking his head: sometimes, often, he was afraid that that little boy was taking too much of an example from him. Living with a grumpy owl, old and insufferable, could ruin his innocent spirit. It was also true, however, that Designer seemed to be fifty very often.

"And whe-when you write Counter and Pu-Publisher what do you get?"

Writer twisted his mouth, crossing his arms: "A grasshopper and an ant".

It wasn't true. Counter always reminded him of something different: an armchair, a key, a sheet, a book, a cup of hot milk, a cake. Publisher, the moon reflected on the ocean.

Designer chuckled and Writer thanked that he hadn't asked him to prove it by writing on the paper.

“Draw something”.

"W-what?"

"What you want. Draw it, though. Don’t write".

Designer preferred digital drawing to traditional drawing, but he knew that Writer liked many of his sketches, even making him smile secretly at how funny and expressive he found them. Sometimes, he liked them even more than the complete drawing.

Shyly, Morty began sketching something, with Writer reaching out to look curiously as he often did when Designer was designing something. A cover, an illustration, an erotic commission such as has been coming to him a lot lately.

But that wasn't a cock. It was a stylized and tender owl, albeit with his eyes drooping and annoyed. Designer turned embarrassed to Writer, who raised an eyebrow and twisted his mouth, immediately recognizing whose expression it was.

As had happened with words, the owl also took flight, just as it was done: Designer’s drawing literally came to life, under the astonished eyes of the smallest and the frowning ones of the oldest.

"It's b-beautiful!" said Designer, victim like every artist of the need to see his works also in other guises, in other forms. He followed the owl with his eyes flitting around the room, going to glide over the kitten who looked at him curiously. Suddenly, the bird of prey swooped down on the cat, grabbing him by the scruff with his claws and carrying him up to the top of the bookcase, wrapping his wings to keep him from falling down.

Morty turned, noticing that Writer was looking at him, a half-smile on his lips and his face slightly tilted to the side. Designer stood looking at him, slightly lowering his face, intimidated. What was he looking at? What was that expression, in that face always so difficult to understand and probe?

"W-what?"

"Write Writer".

Morty knew Rick's voice. Even if said with a smile on his face, that remained an order. It also seemed rather urgent. Needy.

"W-what?" Morty blushed as the sprawling monster freed itself and returned to attack, pecked in the head by the owl.

"Write my name".

Writer was looking at him and at that moment he had the same rapacious gaze as the owl. He was waiting for a move by the Designer, a gesture, an expression, as if to feed on it.

Designer knew what that look was: ego. Pure ego that needed to be nurtured and supported. Like abstinence from a drug to which one was addicted.

Writer wanted to know. He wanted to know what Designer thought when he thought of him.

"Come on, puppy."

Writer leaned over him, putting his hand on the paper without even looking at it and approaching it to the edge of the table, towards Morty.

The boy's heart was beating madly, while he smelled the smell of smoke coming from the writer, who reached him. His smile was sweet, but merciless, and his eyes tremendously focused on what he wanted.

"Write my name".

A cell phone started ringing madly, interrupting that tense moment, saving Designer in the corner from Rick's embarrassing and morbid request. The writer grunted in annoyance, getting up and going to get the phone on the table, while Morty collapsed, blushing furiously on his cheeks and getting up from the couch with the quill in hand.

"Publisher, what is it? I'm busy. Ah-ah, very funny, why don't you go fuck yourself, instead? "

Designer ran up the stairs, Rick staring after him, narrowing his eyes and deeply hating Publisher at that moment, while Morty for once secretly thanked him.

All the blue smoke figures followed him upstairs; or rather, they followed the quill, entering the room with him as he locked himself in, continuing to hear Writer talking about the latest edits of the book, speaking sour and annoyed.

Designer threw himself on the bed, burying his face in the pillow while those things continued to flutter around him, silent and incorporeal.

What was he afraid of? What could have seemed so embarrassing? Why had he become paralyzed like that? Certainly, the tub where he had found him half naked a few days earlier, would not be the thing to appear.

Or yes?

Morty lifted his head from the pillow, taking a notebook on the bedside table and bringing it to the quill, biting his lip, hesitant.

What could Writer be to him? A house? A pen? A book? What?

With his eyes closed, Designer wrote Rick's name, thinking intensely about him, what him had meant for his past, his books, the present, the house where he had welcomed him.

Opening his eyes, Designer looked at the smoking page, as something took shape right before his eyes; something that he had not imagined and to which he could not find a particular meaning.

It was a heart. A heart that was beating slow, extremely softly. For a second he thought it was banal and even a little gay (so Rick would say), before realizing that that heart was wrapped in ink-stained pages, which looked more like those of a manuscript than a newspaper or a printed book.

Designer stared at the figure for a long time, along with the sprawling monster, kitten, blanket, and owl. He stared at it until evening came, Rick's voice calling him downstairs.

He opened the window, leaving them free in the night.


	20. Siempre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by Yusunaby

Then Morty walked until the office feeling already tired. Writer was working, burning the keys by intervals between rushed inspiration and short pauses to reread what he just wrote. He didn’t look at Designer when he entered the room. Writer just pushed himself away from the desk to open a room and let Morty place his body above his lap. Rick kept his eyes reading over the screen, so he just grabbed the back of Morty and leaded it closer to his chest, fitting their bodys with dexterity routine.

Designer turned on his device, and while it started to lauch the apps, the boy rubbed his eyes and yawned. Little tears of tireness moistened his hands, and he just stared at the screen numb, letters and colours were there, awaiting to create amazings pieces of art. But his mind was boiling anything but thoughts. He rested his chin into Writer’s shoulder; closing his eyes to bear the stress.

Rick smirked, that last sentence was been a poem.The very fact of feeling his little doll over his body turned him on, beyond than he would expected. More than allowed. His free hand started to stroke his back and play with the fabric of his pant’s borderline, unconsciously. His touch finally reach the bareskin of the child, under the clothes; but something was weird. More than normally, meant to say.

Morty’s skin was hot. Too hot.

‘’Puppy?’’ asked Writer, feeling his lust fading on that same second and starting to concern, the remorse of what he was about to do finished his horny mood ‘’Are you ok?

The novelist realized that the weight of the artist was actually heavier, and a little purring of snore answer him back. As following action, Rick stood up while holding Morty, walk until the bedroom and laid him on the bed. His cute countenance was reddish and upset, like if he was having a nightmare. Rick placed a hand over his forehead and indeed, he was suffering a fever. _That was all they needed._

It took them days to prepare a presentation to the next meeting, the same that was going to be the next morning. Writer wasn’t really excited about, but since Morty seemed to look so happy to join him, he was secretly awaiting it too. What a shame that Designer was quivering and panting over the whole night; Rick stayed at his side taking care of him and spoiling him on the only way he knew.

However, spending the whole night without sleeping was certainly tiring. Even if his task was been only stared at Morty and watching him sleep. He knew that they worked so hard, but yet, was upto cancel the meeting to stay with his child and support him. Sadly, Morty was the stubbornest kid he had never meet, as soon as he wake up and realized that he was sick, he begged Writer to go alone.

_Wasn’t it hilarious?_ That Morty was more worried about cancelling the event that they planned, than for actually himself. Writer was about to scolt him, but his sad and reddy face changed his mind in no time. Unbeliavable, he had to call Counter to go to his house and take care of Morty while he was at that stupid event. What he didn't expect, was that his boss was going to give a ride to his babysitter.

‘’So today is closed the vet?’’ Publisher was carrying the equiptment of Counter, whom, as a worried grandfather, prepared a lot of remedies and soup for his youngest coworker ‘’You better don’t take him to Stuttering until being fully recovered, I don't want get scabies’’

‘’W-w-where is he? W-w-where is-s the p-p-poor b-boy?’’ Counter entered the house wearing gloves and a mask over his mouth; already using an unpron.

‘’Upstairs’’ finished Writer, avoiding the angry that Publisher staring at his kitchen with a disgusted face caused him ‘’I’ll be back on afternoon, please take well care of him’’

He trusted Counter, but never was wrong to repeat. Writer was going to go out, but his boss was still stood on the door; looking at him with a gorgeous smile, crowned by those terrible annoying sunglasses. Silence was the only witness, they were glancing at eachother’s eyes. Publisher moved finally, going straight to the co-pilot seat to open the door for the novelist, without saying a word.

‘’I don’t want your fucking pitty. I can go alone by myself’’ said Writer, locking for his keys.

‘’Como prefieras Papi. But today the weather is deafening and if you think that you can go on that shitty moto and stand 30° while crossing the city...’’ Publisher pretended to blow himself air with a nonexistent fan ‘’I’d accept a cool air ride and good music’’

And he was right, the heat was unbearable and Rick had not longer question about how Morty would have catch a fever. The enviroment was so rude and the kid probably had his defenses low. Same for him. As soon as he reached the door open, the sun was devouring his pale skin. He was going to take the ride by convenience, not because he would like to go with Publisher; repeated to himself on loop.

But failed.

By the time he breathed that promised cool air he remembered the intoxicant citric smell of Publisher at his best. Was inevitable brought memories to his mind, it was overwhelming to hear his cheery voice talking to him without any response; _just as those days_. He landed his sight over the window, the Citadel was always changing and yet, still being that same rotten suburbia of degeneration.

Publisher finally shut up, switching his glance between the road and his worker. His fear came true. As soon as he stop talking, the memories of years ago pinched his nerves; and he'd prefer being a ridiculous charlatan than a weak soul longing to run away with his muse. The director took a deep breath before talking again, absorbing the cigatte and old paper scent.

‘’I know that Mr Batman only goes out by night. I bet you haven’t seen this part of the city at day. So, this is the perfect time to see the sunlight colouring the city’’

Writer crossed his arms and sank into his seat, looking pissed at the driver, whom was smiling.

‘’It is always coloured. The fact is that you probably can’t see the bright within the shadows’’ Writer closed his eyes and shrugged, then stared again to him over the rear-view mirror ‘’You always had prefer loud tones and brighter pallets, anyway’’

‘’No, no, I see the light between the dark; it’s way evident’’ Publisher replied, hurted, with a serious tone that did not crack his amused countenance ‘’It seems to be waiting until someone notices it, waiting to be looked-at with the same admiration as sunlight, but not everyone would care to see it’’

‘’Of course none would care. Having a lot of light at day, who would prefer a lonely light on the dark?’’ ‘’I did’’ cut Publisher, finally shattering his smile ‘’And I would do it again. Lo haría por siempre’’

The conversation died inmediately.

...

...

...

Crowded was a word unable to suit the description of that place. It was boiling. It was about to explode by people. Like a woman about to give birth his children. Writer snorted to himself, glad because Morty would have never stand being there more than a couple of seconds, or yet, would have been already having an anxiety attack, breathing outdated and pressing his hat too hard.

But he wasn’t there.

Publisher grabbed his wrist without any warning and started to walk between the people, pushing and leading the writer until their stand. Writer could barely follow his lead, he was faster and was pulling him so hard. It was a miracle that they arrived sooner than expected. The stand was already done and was neat, with all of those green flags with the logo of Stuttering Books on gold ink.

‘’Ok everyone, I know you’ve waiting but this is crazy. Writer Rick is not going to sign anything that isn’t bought here, nor attend anyone who had not make a row’’ clapped his hands ‘’Move on!’’

Writer was stunned, it seemed to be a very rough day. Counter was right since the beginer and that place was indeed the best to make an event. For first time on a while, the novelist felt spoiled by his fans, he wasn’t a big fan of gifts, but the commpliments and short reviews about his newest works were enough to make his egocentric soul viber, if only Morty were there to see.

Or to help him. His hand was starting to hurt for the mechanical sign and his back needed a rest for have been sittin a lot of hours. He sought Publisher with the eyes but he wasn’t there either. At least, his ausent meant business and not sex in the bathroom, like all of those times that Editor was his partner. He drowned himself on listen and grate all the Ricks and Mortys on the row, his torture was about to end within less than an hour and he could return to check Designer, fortunally.

‘’You know what’s the better part of the book?’’ Writer raised his glance after have signed the current book, starving for the opinion of the leader Rick of a team of three ‘’The Morty being fucked’’

They laughed, Writer frowned, confussed. ‘’You read a wrong book, sorry, I don’t write-

‘’Naive and foolish Morty, by the way. _‘Fuck me, writer, and lemme draw the cover of this’_ ’’ the Rick gave a highfive at his team and they sit on each side of the table ‘’How is it? You pay him to be your whore or he pay you to suck your dick? Dude, having a Morty doing the work of a Rick is a shame, I mean, look at this cover, I draw better with a pen tied to my dick’’

Writer stood inmediately, dropping his tranquil countenance and getting furious in no time. They could talk about his works, about his lyrics, about him. But messing with Morty was different, he was the only witness of how much effort Designer put on each of his arts; nothing compaired with a flat Rick doing it without purpose. Racist bastards, he was shivering of anger already.

‘’You would never understand it!’’

‘’Understand what? How does it feel like to fuck a Morty? Of course not!’’ the other two started to laugh, approaching slowly to Writer, the few people left in the row got lost ‘’I’m not a pedo like you’’

‘’Enough!’’ Writer punched the leader with success, but his partners grabbed him by each of his arms, retaining him while the main member stood up.

And began to hit Rick on the stomach. The bunch of cowards broke his glasses and punched his legs to prevent him to kick back. Writer felt the anger but not the strength to fight against three at the same time, surrendering before the scene of have been defeated by beasts. Or it was what he though.

Suddenly, he felt his body fell on the floor, and inmediately huggeg his hurted body and raise his eyes.

‘’ _Cabrones, hijos de puta’’_

Publisher grabbed one Rick from the hair and smash his face againt his kneel within seconds, then drop the body to the ground and grabbed other one from behind, lifting him by his arms and throwing him over the air until the wall, that got broken. The last one, the leader, tried to punched him but was stopped with an incredible precision just to got two kicks and fell to the ground. Publisher sit over the abdomen of the man on the floor and started to punching him on the face with unnecessary violence.

‘’Stop fucking mocking of him’’ the punches went slow until stop, Publisher began to loose adrenaline, suddenly feeling tired. He lost his sunglasses on that fight, was panting, sweaty and bloody, yet, stared at Writer with no smile ‘’Are you ok?’’

Writer was standing against the wall, nodding on silence as his eyes absorbed the scene and his mind saved that day as an example of Publisher's extraordinary strength. The director nooded him back, as confirming an anwser that never land the outside. He stood up to breath correctly, not none of them noticed the first Rick waking up and approaching Publisher from behind while holding a blade.

He stabbed Publisher on the ribs, and the director’s only reaction was a snarl, complemented by a grin of pain that fade as he turned back to grab that guy and throwing him on the air. Too sad that the stairs where in front of him, finishing the work of cracking his bones. Writer wided his eyes and try to move, but his legs were frozen by the surprise. Publisher just withdraw the knife off of his body and then his ruined green coat, to make a knot with it over his waist to stop the bleeding.

‘’I think we should leave know’’ groaned Publisher, walking until Writer and grabbing his head between his bloody hands ‘’Did they hurted you?’’

There was him, the old same Publisher he remember. Just in front of him staring at him with those beautiful eyes. Serious, concerned, human. Not the clown that he had become. Writer felt his face burn by that slight contact, that lasted seconds before Publisher moved to hold his wound.

‘’I’m taking you to a doctor’’ finally spoke Writer, grabbing him by the sane side of his body and putting his arm around of his shoulders to help him walk.

‘’No, no, I have to talk with- groaned again, the damage was deep -the owner of...

‘’I don’t fucking care, your health is first’’ Writer was the one on pushing him this time, leading them along the disaster left behind, police would never know what really happened and the only victims in any case were they, as Editorial.

...

...

...

‘’Well it seemed to be hurtful, but it didn’t reach any organ’’ coughed ‘’any important...’’ replied to himself ‘’You will need to rest this night here, then you can _buuuurp_ leave... What? We are goddamn Ricks, we can heal faster but we like to see others suffering, see you _buuuurp_ tomorrow, farts’’

The white coat and babyblue outfit Rick left the nursing room, Publisher was lying over the stretcher with his barechest bandaged. The white light of the hospital was too bright by his sensitives eyes, but that didn’t stop him to search Writer with his eyes. And he seemed to be amused, somehow.

‘’Worse doctor ever’’ said Publisher, weakly. ‘’Indeed’’ smiled Writer, but not at him.

Publisher stared at the wall, trying to find what was Rick looking at, but it was empty. Also his mind. ‘’Why did you do it?’’ asked the Writer, serious.

‘’None is talking shit about Stuttering Books... not even for making mock of your whore... He is...’’ Publisher felt a pulse on his wound, closing the eyes tight to drown a groan ''...part of the team now''

The novelist looked at him with his mouth open and his eyes wided. He never expect Publisher to say those words. Never. He was barely unrecognizable when they were alone. Nonetheless, so familiar. Writer was deeply grateful with him, somehow, and after his words, he was proud. He put a hand over the shoulder of Publisher, snatching him a charming but nostalgic smile.

‘’Thank you’’ finally said Writer, feeling the hand of Publisher place over his own to stroke it. ‘’Thank you for staying with me, mi amor’’ Publisher wided his eyes, he didn’t say it, it was his soul.

However Writer frowned at him badly and whitdrawed his hand to walk at the door ‘’S-sorry, I didn’t-

‘’I owed it you’’ was his cold response. His ex husband remained stood on silence at the door frame for few seconds, but without turning back; then he left the room.


	21. Stop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by RickishMorty

He hadn't slept a wink.

Not that it never happened to him, but lately with Designer beside him he slept better. He reassured him, relaxed him, making him sleep more easily. He often woke up holding him close, more often than he wanted.

That night had been different.

He had returned late, after spending a lot of time in the hospital, waiting for the diagnosis to communicate that Publisher was well and out of danger.

Obviously, Morty wasn't sleeping. He was waiting for him on the sofa, with a sleepy expression and the tablet on his legs. That wait made him feel even worse, twisting his stomach.

He had left him dinner ready, which he consumed with a hinted smile, automatic, without being hungry. He could not leave it there.

Morty had overwhelmed him with questions about the event, excited: he was much better and the fever had dropped. Counter had spoiled him well, checking him all day. The boy kept asking him about the day spent presenting the new book: Writer told him everything except the truth. He didn't tell him about those Ricks, the insults, the beatings, the hospital, Publisher.

Publisher.

He could not get out the image of him slaughtering those three, alone, without sparing himself. Yes, he had defended Stuttering. He had defended him. And he had defended Morty.

That thought made his stomach twist again. It had been unexpected and incredible: Publisher defending a Morty ... ~~his~~ Morty.

It was worth more than anything. It meant most of all.

It hurt more than anything.

It was easier to see Publisher as an asshole, bastard, careless, selfish.

He had become so accustomed to that version that he hardly remembered the one before. Sometimes it almost seemed to him that he was dead.

_Mi amor._

Writer closed his eyes, with a piercing pain that returned to be felt on the old wound stitched up with force, with difficulty, after years. It had been so long since it hurt. It had been a long time since he remembered so much.

"Everything is alright?"

Writer turned to Morty at the table, almost not seeing him, smiling, distant but reassuring.

"Yes, Puppy."

Writer was the first to underestimate the Mortys. Not to understand that Designer saw him more than he saw him, reading his gaze, noting his bruises, realizing that he no longer had glasses.

Designer swallowed, before daring and asking for more.

"What did you do there?" he pointed to his wrist, where there was the sign of one of those Rick's hands.

Writer looked at that bruise, blinking his eyes several times before getting up from his chair.

"Let's go to sleep".

He said no more, before going up the stairs to spend a sleepless night. Again, he didn't know that even Designer would not hadn't slept a wink.

The next day, he had thought long and hard about going to the office. All morning, he stayed at home, to spend time with Morty who, even during convalescence, not stopped working. The idea that those Ricks had disgusted his work, seeing him spend every single moment on his creations, was unbearable.

After lunch, he decided to go to Stuttering to retrieve drafts that had remained in the (useless) hand of Editor; without those, he could not go on.

He went on foot, without taking the motor or other means: he was in no hurry to get there and the journey seemed to him to be twice as long.

Arriving at the office, he felt almost a stranger, not part of that place: Counter ran from one side to the other, with a phone in his hand, a dozen folders in the other and a briefcase held tight in his armpit. Writer frowned, looking at that mad rush without understanding it. Asking him what was going on was impossible: he was stammering on the phone like an obsessed, trying to gather information about a certain _incident_ , in an attempt of uncertain mediation.

As he tried to pick up more of that speech, he heard a voice shouting from over the stairs, facing the entrance where they were.

"Tell him I'm contacting lawyers to sue that fucking bookstore that allows thieves and harassment without even a fucking surveillance."

Writer looked up, seeing Publisher towering over them, with his usual confident smile. He did not look like someone who had been stabbed the day before, with those brand new sunglasses covering his eyes.

The moment the Boss returned his gaze, Writer prepared to hear a greeting, an insult, a _Hey Papi_. Anything, a predictable start to the conversation, as they had every day.

The moment Writer was about to speak, Publisher left, disappearing to his office, without saying a word, but continuing to smile.

The writer remained silent, still, while Counter continued to sow papers throughout the hall. After a while he began to collect them, reading it one by one to prevent other words from accumulating in his head.

The roof of Stuttering was his favorite place. Nobody ever went, all too busy: Publisher on the phone, Counter in the office, Editor masturbating in front of the computer. Designer didn't even know it existed. Instead, he often took refuge there. The Stuttering Books overlooked the Citadel, right in the commercial district: you could see the rich, luxurious area, administered by the Presidency and the Council, but also the suburbs, the territory of Miami. A place between two worlds, which did not belong to either of them.

Sometimes he felt like this.

Facing the railing, he took another drag of the rolled cigarette, yet another, seeing the buildings blurred without his glasses on him.

There he came to write. At that moment, however, he would not have been able to put down a single line.

He was totally empty.

And he already knew that feeling.

"You're filling my balcony with ashes."

Writer did not turn around, knowing perfectly well who was speaking to him: he was facing the small terrace of Publisher which was almost never used. That day there was little wind, it could have been that he was actually dirtying the balcony floor. But it seemed such a poor excuse to have even gone up there, to him.

"I thought hell was already full of it."

A slight amused snort reached his ears: he heard him walking towards him and tensed nervously. Not because he didn't want he to come close, but for the exact opposite.

He hated himself.

"You're not thinking of killing yourself, are you ...?"

Writer looked at him out of the corner of his eye, seeing him just behind him, who did not look out.

"We birds of prey know how to fly very well."

"But you also have impeccable vision, usually."

Publisher reached out to him and Writer looked down. He was holding a case for glasses.

"With all the apologies from the company for what happened."

Writer remained motionless, with the rolled cig slowly turning off, abandoned. He stared at that ... what was it, a gift ?, for several seconds, in silence. Flashes of a different box, smaller and square, hit his head, slapping him with memories that he had buried down, far away, inside himself. Clamp in a vise.

"Well? They are more branded than the ones you usually wear, but surely they are- "

"Stop that".

Silence fell between them again as Publisher withdrew his hand and Writer continued to look down the street.

"Oh come on, don't always fucking get prayed. You are my coworker, what happened is my responsibility anywa- "

"Fucking stop."

Writer finally turned to meet Publisher's eyes: or rather, his very dark sunglasses.

The Boss raised his eyebrow, looking at him with a smirk that seemed almost mocking.

"Doing wha-"

"STOP DOING THAT."

Writer screamed, facing him, as Publisher's smile paralyzed, until it almost faded away.

"What is it, Papi? Bothers you that I saved your ass? "

"Don’t call me that".

Publisher looked at that furious, angry look before lifting his sunglasses on his head, finally looking serious.

"I listen to you".

Writer laughed, sarcastic laughter hiding a wound before spreading his arms.

"Fuck, thank you! But i don’t wanna listen to you anymore! You have to stop acting like this! "

Publisher clenched his teeth before asking the wrong question.

"Like wha-"

"LIKE THE FUCKING PERFECT HUSBAND!"

Writer had hit the mark: Publisher opened his eyes in different colors, holding his breath to that word that had become a taboo, forbidden, dangerous. Unbearable.

"What's up? It hurts? Do you want to know what hurts the most, _m_ _i amor_? "

Writer said it sharp, allusive, as Publisher closed his eyes, turning to leave. Rick squeezed his wrist, locking him and making him turn back to him.

"It sucks to take your own medicine, doesn't it?"

"I-I didn't say it to-"

"To what? To hurt me? Are you sure? Because it seems to me the exact opposite. "

"N-no, Writer, that's not wha-"

"And how is it, then? Isn't it all part of your fucking sadistic and sick plan? Being a superhero punching those three assholes, opening the car door, talking about light, dark, day and night, giving me these fucking glasses - while he said it, he took the case, throwing it over the roof, violently - even defending Designer ! And then that ... Those words, Jesus Fucking Christ! "

It was Writer's turn to turn around, slipping his hands into his hair, with the air stuck in his throat, forming a bump that would not go away for days, preventing him from breathing properly. Everyone somatized differently; some on the stomach, some with headaches. He did it on his breath.

"You're killing me," he said strangled, in a high-pitched voice, as if someone was pressing his hands tightly against his neck.

Publisher feeling him hold his breath, in a groan of strangled pain, approached again, putting a hand on his shoulder to stop him. Writer spun around, slapping his hand away.

"Why?! Why the fuck are you doing it ?! "

His eyes asked him with desperation, anger, perhaps hatred, but also with something ineffable hidden at the bottom of his irises, in the yellow circles around the pupil. A small light, hidden by darkness.

Publisher was silent, worried, displaced, and he too with a strange, hidden desperation that was screaming to come out.

"Because..."

"WHY THE FUCK HAVE YOU RUINED EVERYTHING?!"

Writer was panting from the screams, the anger, the lack of air, but shortly after those words he stopped breathing completely. What had he told him?

Publisher was devoid of his smile, his glasses, his sharp and smart responses. Writer was devoid of his distance, his superiority, his walls.

They were naked, facing each other.

But they weren't ready. Not like that.

Publisher waited a second too long: he could not slip into that crack, in the crack that had break that steel soul that had been hidden for so long. He had lost the moment.

Writer returned to his distant, hidden world again, away from interactions and implications with people. Alone, again. If you are alone, nobody can hurt you.

"Stop".

He said only this, after an explosion of words that usually came out only from his fingers, written, which he could never say to the world around him.

He left, while Publisher tried to take his wrist, without success.

Only able to watch him go.

For the umpteenth time.

The glasses case was on the cement, completely dented and torn. Writer looked at it for a long time, before picking it up, opening it: his new glasses were still intact.


	22. Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter and Illustration by Yusunaby

__

_Pero, que el señor tenga sufienciente misericordia de Rickté._

Running merciless between his thights, hot, burning. The sperm reached the white underware, fusing inmediately with the wet fabric. The sound of bareskin slapping suddenly got faded; the loud moans became pants. Some of pleasure, some of tireness. The thick red and throbbing member went out of the cavity, laminated by the plastic of the condom that was always present. The naked guy rested his head against the boxes of the shelving, looking back to see his boss ridding the evidence and clossing his trousers; finishing to fix his clothes. Beyond sweat and his messy hair, he seemed to be flawless, satisfied. His serious cheeky countenance said it all. He was about to leave. The mild worker smiled at him with a begging gesture to exchange words, but he was not even looked back in return.

‘’Clean this mess, Rickowsky’’ the owner finally placed his sunglasses over his eyes, opening the door and letting the white light of the hallway lumininate the depot ‘’I don’t pay you to waste your time’’

‘’Neither for fuck me’’ barked the receptionist, angry but following the instruction for barefear to the taller, who looked at him with no smile; the phrase snatched him a hint of regret.

‘’Será mejor que no hayas dicho lo que escuche’’ sentenced severe, returning his steps until the half naked worker and grabbing him from the neck, pressing him against the wall with fury ‘’Why is every time harder to get some of you guys that are not idiots, that’s right; all of you are. **Clean. This. Room** ’’

‘’So you also put your novelist star to clean when you make a mess on bed?’’ the receptionist smirked like a regular rick, the director loose his grip, sighing; defeated ‘’Oh, right, he doesn’t like to fuck with you, does he? Otherwise you wouldn’t be here with me’’

A punch on the stomach let Rickosky without breath, benting on the floor to catch some air until his boss grabbed him from the hair and made him look above, to face his countenance of no eyes; just dark sunglasses barely lighted by the whiteness of the hall. And a gun pointed at his forehead. Was a lie to say that Rickowsky didn’t find the whole situation incredible hot; he was getting horny again.

.

The door got bursted suddenly, the receptionist looked at the entrace with big guilty eyes, he was somehow jacking off on work, on the depot that sheltered just some toners and old stuff. Publisher was looking at him displaced, then proceed to half close the door and remaining outside; the worker could not contain his apologies while he was trying to get dressed again; awkwarly begging the owner for not firing him. Then, the nice and generous director commanded him to clean the room and return to work as nothing happened. Of course, oweing him a favour for have forgiven that mistake.

...

...

...

‘’How is my king today?’’ greeted Publisher, giving a small box of food to the Owl sittin on the living room, the T.V. turned on but almost in mute, he was writing on his laptop and dressed with a loose blanket that covered his gray pajamas, those of his husband. The man on green coat let the order of food on the table, and approached to kiss his lover ‘’Did you work hard today? Cuéntame tu día’’

‘’Fine, boring. I almost finish this chapter but I’m having struggles with one of the characters’’ Writer tried to smile, but was not able since he stared at the watch to guess the hour, thinking on Publisher returning earlier, otherway around. In fact, it was very late at night. He wasted a lot of time on that novel and his time went fly ‘’How’s the life on the office going? Did you finally fired Editor?’’

‘’Almost. He did such a thing that you would never believe...’’ the marketer landed his body over the writer, sneaking his hands under the blanket to stroke his crotch while whispering his on the ear ‘’But I’m not here to talk about that idiot, I just want to spoil you a little since you were here alone all day’’

‘’Publisher, please, non adesso’’ refuted Writer, grabbing hard his computer to don’t slip it and then pushing Publisher away from him, hidding tireness ‘’I’m about to finish, could be tomorrow morning’’

‘’Oh, lo siento... is just that tomorrow I’ll have a meeting on morning...’’ the greenish hair man sit aback, rubbing his face with both hands to control the urge of sex. He longed him all day without being able to get him out of his mind, but he understood the feeling ‘’But is fine papi, no pasa nada’’

‘’Spiacente, I’ll reward you as soon as I’m free’’ Writer lowered his eyelids, impossible to don’t feel guilty, unbearable the voice of his Muse, screaming to him to rid that conversation and still working on the insight ‘’Also, don’t wait for me awake, I’ll write until dawning, if necessary’’

‘’Mi amor, no. I’ll get you a longer deadline but please, you have to rest also’’ Publisher grabbed his hand, kissing him on the knucles and smelling his scent with the eyes closed, at least enjoying those minutes of company and intimacy ‘’Don’t make me worry for you’’

‘’I’ve never dismiss a deadline and you know it’’ the novelist withdrawed his hand, feeling the tickles of the warm breath over his pale skin, but also, the wet tongue that lick and sucked the finger with a ring without shame or warn; he didn’t want to fall, he needed to work all the night ‘’Besides, marrying the director doesn’t mean I can be a brat and change the final dates. Who do you thing I am?’’

‘’Pues, mi más grande amor’’ smiled Rickté, surrendering to his husband before starting a fight, then redoing his firm grin ‘’But you have to sleep at least 4 hours before thinking on going out’’

‘’I’ll say yes if that will make you leave me work’’ Writer returned his eyes to the screen, finally attending the critical feel of avoid those dangerous eyes and returning to focus; Publisher stood from the couch and walked away without saying anything, just hearing that tired voice before leaving the room ‘’You’re the one who should rest, by the way. But take a shower first, you look like a mess’’

‘’Te amo’’

‘’See you tomorrow... and thank you for the dinner’’

...

...

...

‘’Di que lo quieres más fuerte’’ ‘’Please, I need you harder, Daddy!’’ ‘’Llámame jefe, imbécil’’

‘’I want it faster, Boss!’’

It happened that the always empty booth of security was a perfect place to hide; to lock with him also, that cheery printer of cute glasses that entered to work just a week ago. His body, slender and free from marks had been perfect to bite and squeeze. His worried countenance was the betrying sign of lack of experience and those weak moans were driving him crazy. He seemed so alike; but wasn’t him.

Because his own body, strong and healthy, was not responding as he would do with his husband. None ever could be just the half of what his coveted star writer was. And he was starting to taste the remorse, just seconds after have cum into him, but inside a condom again. There was no way that he could be cheeky enough for filling the interior of someone else that was not his night bird.

‘’Oh, geezus khrist; that was AMAZING, Sir’’ confessed the printer among pants, the editorial owner cleaning himself and then fixing his clothes again, seeking for something between the pockets of his green coat ‘’I cannot believe I’m the boyfriend of the very Director of Communication Distric of-

‘’De qué carajo estás hablando?’’ cutted Publisher, then the worker looked back to him, staring at the hand that was pointing at his forehead with a gun; but he could only see the marriage ring.

‘’W-what? What is this? I thought you were interested on me from the beginning!’’ frowned the glassesed man, hurted because he was starting to fell in love with the perfect boss, until he stole more than his dignity at have fooled him in that way. In any case, he sweared remember his bare hand stroking him moments ago, without any ring ‘’A-are you married?’’

‘’Y seremos felices por siempre’’ snorted, shooting the gun and cleaning his forehead from the sweat with the back of his arm. He left the poor guy naked and passed out over the security cabine, with some of luck, someone would find him and rape him, ridding all the evidendes of his power abuse. After all, he was just venting his stress on that giant circus, what matter if some animals went hurted?

...

...

...

‘’Rickté, for umpteenth time, please, get out of here, I’m going late’’

If Riccardo ever call his husband by his real name, not even his dimension or a mockery name; then it meant that he was absolutelly angry. And he was. After have dealing with him on his stubborn atempt of getting inside the shower with him. It was just a tantrum and a very unnecessary whimp since they already had have relations just a couple of minutes ago. Rick needed that shower before going to an interview with a very busy alien that helped the mortys by gifting them some medicines against pain.

But Publisher insisted on a second round that was clearly not going to happen. His lack of empathy ended the work of getting his nerves to the point of pushing him to the exit and then locking himself inside the bathroom. Then the jokes and the mockery were translated as apologies and begging for forgive that were ignored until Writer went out of the bathroom, fully dressed to prevent more fights.

No longer horny, Publisher just offered everything at his reach to made him calm down, he already had ruined his mood and the interview would be surely more silence than questions. He ruined not only the day of Writer if not his future work. And not money, not material stuff of romantic vane promises made his husband chance his angry countenance before leaving the house trought a portal.

Hurting the Owl always were more painful for the editorial owner than for his husband, instead. And that day was not being the exception. In fact, the director had the weight of his lust pinching over him and his tasks from time to time. He was feeling incredible stressed for the sort of fight of the morning, and even if he tried to fade his anxiety on his contracts, work had not been enough for distract him.

He cheated, again. And he did it to force himself to swallow the double guilt. Industrial amounts of pain were loaded on his mind that night. Injuries from his demons adressed to his mind; for being a failure as husband. For being too much affective and not even being able to control his instics with the person that he loved the most. For never had being enough. Not for Riccardo, neither for him.

The light on the room harrased his eyes, making him hiss at covering his face. It was been Writer, at high hours of the night, entering the room on silence to don’t wake him up. But how he could sleep with those annoying voices on his mind? He knelt on the bed, crawling untill Writer to took his hands within his own and kiss them as the most rare treasure ever found, looking at him from below.

‘’Rick, I’m so sorry; I shouldn’t have bothered you that much’’ watery eyes, concerned countenance of worry at have been overthinking, probably the confession of that feeling was not actually only for the outrage from the morning, also his sins ‘’No sé que estaba pensando, I’m never doing it again’’

But happened that, actually, Writer had a good time on that interview. It made him forget his anger of the morning and even regret not allowed himself to enjoy those hands washing him with tender as he did several times before. It just happened that he didn’t had the time to send his husband a message telling him that everything was fine and there were not hard feelings. Well, he did actually thought and had the time, but didn’t dare since he thought that Publisher would have forget it, as he did.

...

...

...

The orgasm arrived against the wall, with the bussiness man pressing hard the body and head of the weaker Rick, causing him tremble for the cold tile of the showers; those that were at the gym.

He did not even knew him from before, he was just one of those drooling princes that kept his eyes glued to his body all the routine along; of course he stared at him back. The guy was dressed on all black and had a lot of goth piercings, it almost snatched the attention of Publisher, but happened that within his kind of guys he couldn't let whores fit. Sluts like that Rick , who was praying him like a god in exchange of some violent sex. Too sumissive was boring; too boring meant nothing to him.

He finished and throw the used condom to the trash. What a maniac would have been that whicked guy to sought it within the garbage and biting it to drink its warm content. Disgusting, pretty gross, and Publisher felt the urge to quit sexing stranges. Fortunally, he shoot the mind eraser ray on time before the guy could even ask him for his number phone or dimension. Publisher left him there on the floor, still naked and with the faucet running, to see if the security guard could be luckier than him.

...

...

...

Why he would wake up Writer at have had a wet dream about him? His morning erection was about to cum, as soon as he opened his eyes he was already touching Writer on a naughty way while he was deep sleeping. He inmediately witdraw his hand as if it was burning; milking his unaware husband was forbidden even, specially, for him. He had not the right, and the once proffesor would be pretty upset the next morning. Both needed to be on the same channel and he was stepping fordward, again.

No, he didn’t wanted to dissapoint him. Not again. No, please. He didn’t wanted more fights over sex.

They have had enough.

...

...

...

‘’What about shutting the fuck up and letting me do my fucking job?’’ Rickté pressed the throat of the thinner one, making him sttrugle to catch his breath, to force him to resist the angry blows that were hitting his hips with fiery on those backseats ‘’If you wanted someone that make it slower then you should have had seduced someone else; yo no estoy para perder el tiempo’’

‘’Please, you’re hurting me’’ panted the Rick, his legs trembling and his back completely arched by the pain, begging for a break that was clearly not going to arrive. Then he felt a strong hand spanking his ass, the white skin was burning but it did not seemed to affect the ship owner; the spaceship labeled as Stuttering Books to make short deliverys, that Rick was its driver ‘’I can’t, please, it is not fitting’’

‘’Ya cállate’’ Publisher went faster instead, it was not true after all.

That guy was known for being open minded, according to the workers gossip. The rumours said that he liked threesomes, but it seemed like his dirty games weren’t enough compared to Publisher

himself; who was by the way, draining his anger over that quivering body that was about to surrender. Only a call on his phone distracted him; making him stop few seconds to press the mouth of the driver Rick with a hand while the other took the phone and stared at the screen. Frowning, twice pissed.

‘’Estoy ocupado’’ was his short, raw and empty anwser, beginning to move his hips again but this time slower, withdrawing the hand of the mouth was was inmediately covered for the own hands of the driver, whom face was a painful countenance of watery eyes and afraid expression ‘’What’s it?’’

Feeling the slow motion over the already red and softened entrace stole a growl from the stronger man, bitting his lower lip and enjoying the involuntary contractions of the boby, the sensation that seemed to be a delight. Nonetheless, he kept his eyes closed to catch the insight of the novelist that made him explode on angryness just a couple of hours ago. The couple had a very rough discussion over a topic that now seemed to be so far away from reallity. A mutual and private fight that surely would have ended by talking if it wasn’t because the director leave the house to prevent a bigger issue. According to himself and his perception about Writer needing time to heal alone.

‘’No, Counter; that was not what fucking happened’’ and the true was, that maybe Writer just needed to vent his problems with someone, hurting Publisher and his already stressed schedule of work; no time for talking about how mortys on the street needed to be saved. Not again that discussion, not again instead of having sex ‘’No way, what the fuck Riccardo told to you?’’

And even if Counter was always on the middle of their fights to fix their twiested knots, the sensation of betrayal of the bald man seemed to be throbbing. He was loyal with both, he promised Owl to talk with Rickté to make him calm down. But he called at the wrong moment, on the worse situation that Publisher managed to overdo by stucking his fingers on the mouth of the Driver to kept him on silence while he was practically getting raped. Luck or not, Counter made the thingsworse, at not being able to talk faster about the point of view of the man in glasses. The stutter voice made Rickté got sick.

‘’ **NO, Richary, no!** Listen bien!’’ Publisher stopped again, denying the incomming orgasm of the body beneath him and placing the phone between his shoulder and ear. With one free hand, he started

to seek his mind deleter gun below the pilot seat, with the other, he pressed both wrists of the man above his head, he was not longer fighting for getting himself free, just sobbing in silence ‘’I will never stand that behavior. **NUNCA,** you got it? I sacrifice myself a LOT on trying to protect him, and how he pay me back? Risking his ass to save the kids that killed MY SON? A la verga, no puedo más con esto’’

Publisher throwed the phone after shutting it down. Some say that mexican sadness is hidding behind the angryness, due the feeling of impotence when there is nothing left to do but accepting the fate. The director remained stunned at have revealed his deepest secret not only to his closest friend, if not also in front of the Rick that was now just looking at him with wide watery eyes, maybe feeling compasion or pity. Giving him the invitation to continue drowning his fury over him, even if he did not knew the whole landscape of the situation. But Publisher steped back. Empty, regretfully, again.

Comming out from him and asking him an apologize not for the rude sex but the unconfortable scene he heard. Then, both remained in silence until Publisher felt the strenght enough to raise the gun and shot at his worker, letting him inconcious as other times he had done before. Then happened that he cleaned himself, not longer horny, and exited the corporation carship to walk until his car, on the zero floor that was the parking lot of the building. He got up on his car, looking with an empty face at the darkness of the underground. The countenance of those who had a lot to regret, and a ton to fix.

Fine. He could let the fight pass by. He could bury all the anxiety that his husband made him feel each time that he went out to his not-secret missions. He could swallow the sensation of feeling hurted by the intentions of save those reckess kids. Those who once murdered the only happiness he used to have. Without a warning, without anyone that could save him. It seemed to be like only the bad people had amazing rewards. Writer was the reward. And Publisher finally forced himself to eat his anger and frustration under the promise of making peace with his dear lovely husband.

That night, he bought the biggest buquet of flowers that he could find, and surprised the concerned Owl by asking him an apologize and saying that Counter spoke with him and made him undertand that he was the one on being wrong. Because Publisher knew no between. He was rather the only victim, or the ultimate guilty from a case that was shinning with several tones of gray. It supossed to be the last time that he hurted, sexed, fucked someone else to drown his anger; he tryed to promise to himself. But as soon as a custumer cancelled its biography two days from finishing the deadline; the discussions returned again. Wasting time and words was worse than not being paid, even if he got his payment anyway. It happened that now, none was going to read his words; the ego of Writer was injured and Publisher knew it. Yet, comprension wasn’t enough to prevent him to cheat on him again.

...

...

...

‘’A week’’ singed Publisher, astonishing Writer with a face of big lake eyes and a fake sad smile; as a tender joke of being eternally hurted by the new. As seeing that his husband just half smiled him back, the director redo his countenance, now looking confident and cheery ‘’Unless you want

me to go with you, I know this event is huge and my king should have bring his knight; no lo crees?’’

‘’Vai, Publisher. You will get bored on the first twenty minutes, then you will be at phone all worried about the Editorial; and to tell the truth, you will be blaming everyone on that room for being ‘nerds’, maybe including me’’ Writer was getting his clothes on a fancy case, the same he used for traveling and that Publisher knew well by staring at it on every picture of the long gallery of memories that his husband keep nutrishing from time to time ‘’Besides, the convention is very far from here, at a planet full of law monkeys that prohibited the teletransportation. The portal gun is forbidden of some areas of the place and if you have an emergency, you will cannot return easily nor fast’’

‘’Nada de eso me importa, mi amor’’ Rickté approached to him from behind for hugging him by his waist, rubbing his face against that hair that was still smelling like the first time; paper and

smoke from yestery year; Writer was still fitting his stuff on the portfolio, moving his head sideway so Publisher could kiss his neck softly ‘’I could do whatever you command me to do’’ _kiss_ ‘’I can leave Counter in charge of SB’’ _kiss_ ‘’I can bear those terrible nerds’’ _kiss_ ‘’I can even drive until there if it means we will stay more time together’’

‘’There will be...’’ Writer made a pause, nervious; finally looking back to face his husband at the eyes and placing his hands over his shoulders, slowing stroking them as smooth massage; however, his face said it all this time, lowered eyelids, a plain line as smile. It was an anticipated no ‘’...will be Mortys’’

‘’Oh, entiendo’’ released Publisher with dissapoint, sarcasm. Unable to break the kind of hug but also looking aside to don’t stare at those greenish eyes that were surely stabbing him by frowning since his reaction was just as expected, how else it could have been? ‘’Then I don’t longer want to go. I know you hate my tantrums but this time I cannot grant you to control myself. I’m fucking jaded of them’’

‘’Oddio, ci risiamo. See why I did not invited you? You always act like this’’ Writer was the one on breaking the contact, inmediately offended by the attitude of the latino, whom arms got crossed over his chest, frowning at him after have rolled his eyes in disgust. Writer began to do his package faster, rushed by the rage and without looking back ‘’If you weren’t a fucking racist you could go with me, but I’m pretty sure that you will start a drama as soon as a Morty approach to me looking for a sign’’

‘’You know exactly what I think about them and you know what? FUC- ‘’swallowed stunned, about to drop a bomb that was the last he needed before losing his husband a whole week. Publisher promised himself to try to rid the taboo topic; he granted himself to opportunity to calm down before continue talking. Anywy, Writer was used to his yellings, but not at his silences. So he looked back with wide eyes, just to find his husband faking a smile ‘’I-I wish you the best trip ever, you deserve that reward’’

Unexpected, Writer glanced to left and right before gluing his eyes on that countenance that was still tranquil, reassuring even. The novelist did not approached, but Publisher landed himself on the bed, sitting next to the closed portafolio that eneded being a mess of documents and clothes. The silence ruled the room, finishing the discussion and fading the tension with a simple ‘Grazie’ that escaped polite from the lips of the Writer; now sitting aside Publisher, who rested his head over his shoulder.

‘’Sorry, this is your event, not mine; you’re free to have your personal stuff’’ Publisher raised his head to look at him, but since he was staring at the ground, he grabbed his chin to make him turn to see him ‘’We don’t have to share everything, how boring it would be if we would do the same things?’’

‘’But I actually want to travel with you, I want to have my own space but also, I want to share a world with you’’ Writer, looking at him again ‘’Let’s have a vacation as soon as I return from this trip, bene?’’

‘’I love you so much, Riccardo’’ concluded Publisher, finally smiling relaxed, experimenting the quietness of thinking before speaking and enjoying its reward; those beautiful oceanish eyes looking right at him with expectation, full of love, perhaps ‘’I know you rest today to endure

the travel tomorrow... pero dame un beso. Dame sólo un beso. Uno que me alcance hasta morir’’

And the writer did as his director commanded, kissing him slow and soft. It was what they needed. Acceptation, trustness, and secureness on each other. Their bond was made of mistakes and many sacrificies from both sides, but the truth was, that it was getting better. Cracked and insane, but beginning to be healed and stronger. They were winning the war, together as a team. They were sure to belong each other, for destiny or something else, but somehow they were staying.

Love was enough to made them stay.

It was enough.

...

...

...

‘’This is a waste-

-of time’’

Publisher wided his eyes, first afraid of the guards for have had discover his sleepy and cocky opinion, then finding that the voice came from a member of the meeting, close to be heard but far for gossip; the guy ignored him after have shared his sentence; so the editorial owner spoke again, whispering.

‘’... ¿Y tu eres?’’

‘’Ricky’’ the guy sitting two chairs away from him finallyturned back. The room didn’t let him see beyond the reflex of his own face trought his glasses, but the man approached instead, lending his hand for a fist, not even for a regular formal greet. He took a seat next to Publisher before staring with boredom at the podium in front of them ‘’Miami Rick, pa’ servirle a usted y a Dios’’

‘’Do you speak spanish?’’ Publisher looked at him from closer, sweeping him with eyes hidden below his eternal black glasses, even if the place was dark and fuzzy.

The guy seemed to be a gothic attempt of any Miami Rick, wearing a long black coat and several belts with medals and pins of Mortys heads on them. Then heavy boots, long hair on covering his temples and glasses. It he was somehow from Miami, then he should have been very edgy or radical punk.

‘’Does spaninglish counts as language? O sea, no me estás escuchando hablarlo o qué?’’ however, he inmediately snatched a smile from Publisher, firstly glad for have found a partner to talk within

that boring meeting, then, for the equal lack of interest that the stranger showed towards him. Vibes of his own husband were written over him; and it was dangerous ‘’Whatcha doing here, bebesho?’’

‘’Ught, ni me lo recuerdes’’ Publisher rubbed his eyes, truly jaded but pretending to be uninterested before the expecting eyes that weren’t looking at him, he placed an elbow on the table and let his face rest over his hand, barely putting attention to the Rick on the stage ‘’I’m supposed to check every pendejada that press and print media has to say, but that shit is boring as fuck and my turn to talk already passed, I’m just here because I need to sign my assistence at the end of the list’’

‘’Oh so you’re a expositor?’’ Ricky put his arms crossed over the table, hidding his face over them to rest from the eternal boring speaker but then turning his head to see the other; talking with him was better than rotten his mind on silence ‘’Like presenter or moderator?’’

‘’As Director of District C’’

‘’No puede ser! So you’re the asswhole that always censor the covers of Morty’s from newspaper?’’

‘’Um, sí, they’re children, why the fuck they should participate on our press?’’ Publisher fixed his pose, more to defend himself at crossing his arms with superiority and lack of interest over that topic; ridding it off with success ‘’And by the way, what the hell does it has to do with you’’

‘’Wey, I’m an activist, I NEED the Mortys to be on the cover of our newspaper, they have voice also’’ insisted the guy, crossing his legs and snorting with boredom before looking at him again ‘’This city is so whicked by people like you. Te lo juro, odiar a los Mortysno está cool’’

‘’Are all of you activist this stubborn about those rat- kids?’’

‘’Anda we, atrévete a decirlo’’ Miami fixed his pose, Publisher smiled at him with a terrible daring countenance that was inviting to insult him better, but only for continuing the flow of conversation that seemed like a weird devabú ‘’So, if you’re one of those putos racists how the fuck they nammed you Director of Communication District, it doesn’t make no sense... unless you have fucked-

‘’No mames, is not what you’re thinking’’ reproached the marketer, amused for making Ricky frown at him with his severe face; that alike to Writer. Fuck. Inmediately after, he took his sunglasses above his forehead to look at him at the eyes, maybe a little bit of trust on his gaze could made him change his mind ‘’If you wanna know more about me, you will have to accept me a drink first’’

‘’Are you tryna flirt with me?’’ the Miami crossed his arms, offended but arching a eyebrown, it was not being a direct decline, at least, the cuestion seemed to be like just a drama.

‘’Are you staying alone on this meeting until the end?’’ Publisher stood up, he wanted to get him but he wan not going to make a big effort if in the court were hundred of ricks easiers to take. The boss of SB stopped at the door, looking back to the seat of the edgy goth guy, as his last silent invitation.

‘’I’m not going to go, I don’t like your atittude’’ pointed. The activist looked back at the stage, the next Rick on talk was from Food District and was morbidly obese, taking a long breath before each word, like panting, but worse since he was only talking; Miami felt a chill, suddenly the hot looking bastard on green coat seemed to be a better option that remaining there ‘’Venga, let’s go for those drinks’’

.

‘’Es neta wey? Because I’d have swear that you were just a miserable bastard’’ laughed Ricky, looking amused and snatching a cocky smile from the taller, who limited himself to take a sip of his tequila, then proceed to refill the glass of his partner ‘’No thanks, I’ve drink too much, if I continue drinking I’ll won’t be able to drive; o sea, I could try but I’m surely going to kill someone on the road’’

‘’So maybe I could take you to home...’’ Publisher smiled again, this time feeling dizzy for the alcohol but finding extremely funny how destiny leaded him to meet that guy the same week in which his real partner in love was gone. Not to mention that his celphone kept the calls of Writer missed, the loud music of the place didn’t let him heard the rigntone begging. He would had stopped ‘’Or better yet,

if you’re free tonight we can go somewhere else...’’

‘’Oh, this is controversial, I wrote a lot about this but never happened to me’’ but at that point; Miami Rick was beyond fuzzy, absolutelly drowned over the effect that all those shots did to him, yet, he was picky enough to surrender that fast, or maybe he was actually confused ‘’Sleeping with Rickté Sánchez on the same night of meeting him, que honor’’

‘’Well, you don’t have to do it but...’’ confessed Publisher, staring at the barman and order him to gave him the bill; refusing the debit card of his guest that was over the countertab since a while; after have paid and not recieving a clear anwser, he looked back to Ricky ‘’Igual me iría con alguien más’’

‘’How cheeky, I like it’’ Miami stood his arm on Publisher to don’t fell ‘’Take me to your home then’’

‘’M-my home?’’ Publisher grabbed him by the waist with force to help him walk to the lobby. He was somehow offended by the statement but also, feeling a little bit angry for the alcohol running over his veins; he needed an anwser to his sin ‘’Who the fuck told you I was going to take you to **my** house’’

‘’You’re single, aren’t you?’’ Ricky launched his arms around his neck to kiss him, feeling loose and dizzy, managing to still filling a puzzle that apparently was kidding ‘’You’re flirting me, don’t wearing a ring; it is pretty obvios that you will take me to your home... besides I don’t go to motels, que asco’’

Sweat ran slow over the temple of the director, that did not kissed him back. He stared at his hand instead, hurting himself at seeing the empty place in which he was supposed to wear the utmost promise of love. Too late, perhaps. Because his husband was busy on the other side of the galaxy and he was there, getting kissed and stroked by an identical replica of him. Waiting on abstinence, that week had been his hardest challenge, and jacking of on the bathroom or the office had been useless since he wanted to feel the warm and touch of someone over his body. His husband, of course, the memory of his body moaning under him was not been suficient to satisfied his lust. His desire.

It was not being enough.

And he felt it, his erection getting really hard inside his trousers. He barely had time to realize that they were still on the lobby of the Citadel Council Meeting and not alone on a private place where the press itself was not watching on him to spread the madness of his adventure. No more options than going to his house, also because there was his deleting mind gun (as a prevention of no sexing on the Council, he wasn’t carrying it). But his pistol was a portal generator, the same that get them from the fancy lobby until the sound of the beach and sand smell; within a kiss that never break his intensity.

He didn’t finished to knew Ricky when he was already drunkely fucking him on the bed. He seemed, moaned and moved as Writer, but was not him. It snatched Publisher regret, anger. Maybe because he knew, deeply inside his incouncious that it was forbiddely wrong. He wasn’t used to kiss the guys, but he was doing it, by need. He used to refuse sex without protection, but he didn’t find the time to wear a condom. He never cummed inside the body of someone that was not his night bird. But he did.

He sinned enough.

The heated night ended with Publisher falling asleep unaware of those details that he ever care. No mind deleting, no cleaning himself, no room to remorse. Just bare rest before some orgasms that his activist guest did support; in contrast to Writer. The scene left behind was also a mess. Clothes over the floor, wetness stainning the matress, smell to sex over the same room that was made to shelter love. Not pity sex. Not those snorings that revealed a well enjoyed routine of excersise. Nothing more. Ricky was been just a guy more within his endless long list of sexed guys; a face more to remember.

_Pero, que el señor tenga sufienciente misericordia de Rickté._

The door went open with slow cotidianity, but Riccardo hesisated on turning the lights on. He knew that Publisher was sleeping by his soft tired snores that seemed to be like a purring. The light of the hall, however, luminied the floor of the room with sassyness; revealing a black coat and boots that weren’t his over the ground. The first stab on his heart was just a warning for what he was about

to spect. The more he openned the door, the more he felt the blood abandoning his body. His mind getting melted on a loop of darkness; his sight went froze, as he saw two bodies on the bed.

**On their bed.**

The light barely bothered Publisher, who frowned sleepy clentching himself more to the wrong body next to him; stabbing even more what was left of the dignity of his husband. Miami Rick blinked too, feeling a pressure on him that was not normal for someone that just wanted an adventure. Then he stared at the door, hangovered but also, getting on his nerves at the moment to stare correctly at the silhouette in front of the bed. It was none if not Riccardo Sánchez. The famous Writer. The pedophile that he himself drowned for having rape a inoffensive Miami Morty, just a couple of years ago.

Because Miami Ricky was an activist, fighter of the justice and journalist in favor of the children.

_Unbealivable._

So, if the journalist was seeking for a end for the dark history of Writer Rick, he found it. But it didn’t meant that he didn’t feel bad for him. Miami covered his body ashamed, feeling as betrayed as the Rick that remained in silence with the eyes open, hurting himself on those few seconds of glace that seemed to be years. A slap on the face finished the work of waking up Rickté, who remained tired with his eyes tight closed to ignore the light, completely alien from the silent outrage that was murdering the poor confidence of the novelist. Then Writer finally stepped aback, eyes full of tears.

‘’No me dijiste que estabas casado, idiota!’’ was the fast spanish of the edgy Rick, who embarrased, get up from the bed to get dressed to grab his things, what was left of his dignity, and the portal gun of Publisher to get out of there; of that matrimonial bedroom. He could leave for now, then Publisher would made sure himself to chase him to prevent a bomb of gossip. Of a ruined fame and life, again.

But on the while, he had another priority. The most important. That one who was running out of the room without saying a word, without dropping any tear. Just grabbing his case already intact from his last travel and placing the tickets of his surely romantic holiday over the dinning room table. And before Publisher could reach him, before his crazily weak screams could be heard for the deaf ears of Writer, the Owl leave the house throughhis own portalgun. Leaving Publisher there, alone, confussed and deeply injured by his own desitions. Crying, shattered and broken, it seemed to be like if Rickté had walked to the graveyard and has caved his own hole. Unable to find an answer for his behavior.

He ruined it all, for a moment of lust. He lost many conversations on the roof.

He lost those tranquil silences. He lost a kiss on the morning.

He lost a warm body to hug at night. He lost the sweetest voice ever heard.

He lost the most beautiful eyes of the galaxy. He lost the prettiest smile on the universe.

He lost the other half of his soul.

He lost all his hapiness. He lost his best friend.

He lost the love of his life.

He lost himself also.

But it was not enough, yet.

He lost Riccardo

He lost everything he had. Riccardo, was his everything.


	23. Divorce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter in the past, before coming back to the present.

He hadn't seen Writer for a month.

Rick had done things right: disappeared from theirmi so home, but also from his old apartment. Neither Editor nor Counter had ever seen him again and it wasn't them he'd gone to. In the office, he never showed up again. He was not in any of the places that Publisher had checked, every day, obsessively, walking into the houses of Counter and Editor multiple times, drunk, looking for him every room, not believing them. He even stooped to call Tattoo, to go to him, mad with jealousy and desperation: a cold look and an expressionless voice reached him every time, always giving him the usual answer: “He's not here. He’s nowhere you can find him”.

And it was true.

Writer had decided not to be found, and Publisher would not find him.

He was alive, though. That was the only thing that didn't drive Publisher completely crazy: his drafts arrived precise, delivered to Stuttering Books in time for each deadline, obviously with an anonymous delivery. Publisher had almost been sued for attacking the delivery boy, trying to steal the address of where Writer was: but they didn't really have it. It had disappeared from the face of the earth. All that was left to him were his words, his books: Publisher was the first to read the drafts, with dark circles he had never had so deep, delaying the work of correction and publication, hoping to find a hidden message inside those pages, of hate, of forgiveness, of anything.

Publisher lit a cigarette every morning in his office, without smoking it, only making him dirty the air in the room, in such a way that it smelled of him, in abstinence as heavy and more than drug abstinence. He had no idea that his prayers for news from him would be answered today.

While he was feverishly reading those pages that crowded at his desk, someone knocked on the door. Publisher immediately raised his eyes: he never did it when someone had to enter, but the hope that he could see his figure, finally, made him look up with need, desperation.

Rickté Sanchez was unrecognizable. The shadow of himself.

"Come on," he said, his throat dry.

His hopes were immediately killed by Counter's bald head, who peeked inside the office, timidly. Publisher lowered his eyelids, without the slightest interest, returning to his drafts.

"Oh, Counter ... Come in."

No stammering. No whining. No moans of anxiety.

Counter arrived in front of his desk in complete silence.

It was that that made Publisher look up again, frowning.

"¿Qué pasa?"

In that instant, in addition to Counter's sad look, Publisher finally noticed the letter that his accountant was holding. The Boss froze, immediately.

“I-I thought i-it was a p-permit that we-we were-waiting…” Counter's voice was neither anxious nor scared. He was sad. Sorry.

Publisher looked at him in silence for a long time.

“I-I'm so sorry, R-Rickté”.

Counter had called him by his name. It had never happened before.

With slow, infinite gestures, Publisher stretched out his hand, taking the letter that Counter was handing him and that he did not want to open or read.

As he slowly opened it, Publisher realized that only the news of Writer's death would be worse than what was written on it.

Than the divorce request.

The court appointment was after three days. Three days in which Publisher had called the best lawyers, both Ricks and aliens, but none of them were able to give him what he wanted: the ability to force and convince Writer to withdraw it. He could have aimed at separation, but there was no way to persuade someone to stay if he wanted to leave. There were no children involved either. There were no ties. The only ones they had were professional, working ones: he would have bet on those, alone and without lawyers, convincing him to try to stay for the good of the company, of his books, of his career.

But Writer was a business he had never been able to manage.

His innate speaking skills, his coercive abilities, his magnetism, had never worked with him.

Publisher, for the very first time in his life, didn't have a winning strategy in hand. And the stakes were vital. They were all.

Incredible, however, how love can play strange tricks: that day, although he was about to lose everything, he woke up happy. He would see him again after weeks.

He was there, outside the courtroom where they would meet with the lawyers, with his heart beating like never before, despite being terribly worn out: he had lost weight, he had lost muscle tone, he had dark circles and his legendary smile was inexistent.

Sitting down, he put his elbows on his knees, resting his face on his two closed fists, looking down, waiting. His legs moved, unable to stay still, as Publisher thought of everything he wanted to say to him in that month away. All the guilt, the apologies, the regrets, the pain, the questions.

The moment he heard the corridor door open and turned around, each of those intentions died in his mind the instant he looked at him again. Writer was there, he was physically there, really and finally in front of him.

Unlike Publisher, his face was composed, detached as ever. He didn't appear to have lost weight, despite wearing a long black jacket, which mostly covered him, hiding his body from his gaze.

He was stunning.

But his gaze, directed in front of him, was as unrecognizable as the smile of the other: cold, austere, cold and distant. It was very different from the perpetually annoyed, inquisitive, sarcastic, but ALIVE one he usually had.

He was stunning, but he looked fake.

He looked dead.

Publisher stood up immediately, reverent and ready, noticing only after a while two people behind him, still two Ricks, one of whom was black, who looked almost like a bodyguard. He went to meet Writer, bewitched, like a moth towards the light or Icarus towards the sun.

"Rick ... Finalmente no pude soportarlo más, me estaba muriendo, yo-”

"Please don’t speak to my client before entering the court. Your lawyer?" said the other Rick, who was supposed to be his lawyer, stepping between him and Writer.

Rick wasn't looking him in the face, staring at an undefined point in the void.

Publisher sought his husband's gaze again, with a half-smile that was not at all convinced: “Rick, ¿quién diablos es este? Hablemos, por favor, I have not brought anyone, quería hablar contigo ”.

Publisher pushed aside the lawyer effortlessly and for a moment didn’t meet Writer's gaze, immediately covered by the black Rick, who had a similar size to Publisher’s.

"Distance, please."

Publisher narrowed his eyes, starting to get really pissed off: it was like splitting a starving lion from a piece of meat. Anyone who got in the way wanted to die.

"I want to talk to my husband, get the fuck out of here," he said, in a low voice, which was refraining from being angry. What was killing him was Writer, not looking him in the face.

"If you don’t have your lawyer and you put yourself in this way, then we will proceed directly to the trial, without a search for a plea deal," said the lawyer, in a flat voice.

A sarcastic, almost hysterical chuckle escaped Rickté: “Plea deal? What the fuck are you talking about? Rick, we're not getting a divorce, please listen to me, let's talk”.

Writer looked down at the floor. Publisher could have sworn he saw a change in those dead eyes and tried again to approach. Just then, his heart ached, noticing that he was no longer wearing the wedding ring.

"Please, listen to me, you and I will talk, without the lawyers, give me ... Rick, please-" he said, desperate, trying to take his hand without success. The bodyguard stopped his arm and that gesture was as if someone had burned his skin.

“DÉJAME JODER!”.

Publisher closed his hand into a fist, punching the other Rick in the face, who took the blow, while Publisher was preparing to throw another one, receiving one in turn instead.

"SECURITY" shouted the lawyer, as the two Ricks prepared to beat each other to death, with Publisher mad with rage and pain, like a bull in the middle of a corrida.

"Te mataré hijo de puta!"

Publisher rushed at that Rick, raising a fist to hit him again, harder, to really kill him if necessary. He was just a nobody, used to vent that pain. Just like all the no-one he had let off steam with before and that were why they were there.

"BASTA!"

Writer's voice rang out in the hallway, more furious than his face actually was, still a mask of stiffness and detachment. Publisher looked at him, as if hypnotized by finally hearing his voice, again, after what seemed like years. It didn't matter that it was practically the same as everyone else's.

It was his.

Publisher let go of the bodyguard, looking only at Writer, taking another step towards him, as if waiting for him to say more. What else to do.

Writer looked at him sternly, as if weighing a choice to make, moving his eyes into his. Again, a spark appeared in those green eyes, while those of the other were naked in front of him, helpless. If he wanted to kill him, Publisher would have let him do it.

"Half an hour," he said, and a flashback of when he promised to go out only once together hit Publisher; "Only half an hour".

It was as if he had promised him a lifetime.

Publisher smiled for the first time since he had last seen it, but it lasted only a moment: just as it seemed to him that Writer was really looking at him, Riccardo moved from there, entering the room used by their meeting, without looking at the lawyer who was shaking his head in disbelief. Publisher followed his husband, knowing that he would make it. He would have him back with him.

He had to.

Failure was not contemplated.

Writer ushered him in, closing the door behind them.

Publisher had to restrain himself: his passion in a normal moment would have led him to hold him, kiss him, hug him, holding him tightly to himself for hours.

Those eyes, however, made him understand that it was not the right move. He knew Writer: physical contact was something that with Publisher he had managed to afford much more, but he did not contemplate it during the arguments, during the pain.

And that was the final part of a crisis that began a long time ago.

Writer sat down, crossing his legs and pulling out the tobacco, placing it on the table; Publisher started to approach the chair next to him, but Writer glared at him, pointing with his eyes to the chair on the other side of the table. He didn't want to be near him.

Publisher took the shot, sitting down while the other rolled the cigarette.

"Te extrañé tanto," Publisher said, wringing his hands under the table to keep from the need to touch him, to be near him. Writer closed his cigarette, lighting it, without looking at him even for a moment.

Publisher continued, cautious, but eager to explode like a raging river: “Estaba preocupado. No tenía ni idea de dónde estabas, todo lo que hice fue buscarte ”.

The smell of that cigarette, instead of annoying him, relaxed him: a passive smoker, Publisher was breathing Writer, not the smoke.

Writer was smoking, without saying anything, looking at the ground: he seemed to be listening to him or so Publisher hoped. He wanted, again.

"Writer ... Listen to me, I ... I'm sorry, I want to explain what-"

"Do you think I brought you here to listen to you?"

Writer cut him off, his voice still colorless. He seemed almost calm as he turned towards him: even his expression was colorless, totally. He had already worn that mask once, but Publisher didn’t know him yet.

The Boss remained silent, frowning, not knowing what and how to answer: what did he mean? He wasn't lucid enough to read Writer at the time. Even if he had been, he was illegible.

"Rick ..."

"The only reason you're here ..." Writer clicked his cigarette on the floor, indifferent to being dirtying the floor. He turned to him, approaching the table with his bust and finally looking him in the eye.

“… It's to allow myself to throw up everything I have inside on you”.

Publisher stood motionless, as if stunned. He had always been more aggressive in arguments, but Rick knew how to choose the perfect words to hurt: he was a writer, after all.

"Ric-"

"You won't say a fucking word until I'm done, then I'll walk out of this room and you'll stay in here, signing the papers that means that this" he pulled the wedding ring out of his pocket, slamming it on the table "it's not worth a fuck anymore and that you and I have nothing in common except copyright and exploitation rights ”.

Publisher's eyes were wide open, his breathlessness making him raise and lower his robust, muscular chest: yet, he couldn't seem weaker at that moment. He shook his head, swallowing, his mouth dry, helpless.

Writer's eyes were no longer colorless. They were filled with hatred and anger.

"No ... No, Rick, no, we can-"

Writer chuckled, shaking his head as if Publisher had not yet understood something extremely simple.

"Look, this is not a trade or a bargaining" Writer's eyes narrowed, dangerous, because they can hurt, full of disgust.

"Not-"

“Ok, I'll try to speak your language” he put both hands in front of his mouth, looking up, as if pondering, falsely thoughtful: “This is a termination of the employment relationship. Is it a little clearer now? "

Inside that falsely soft voice, there was a poison that Publisher had never seen. He had seen him angry, annoyed, offended, disappointed, even an asshole and selfish. But never mean. That was Publisher’s prerogative.

The Boss had shining eyes, a frown, totally devastated, ready to collapse at any moment, helpless.

It couldn't really be happening. It was not possible.

“Always speaking your language, the exploitation rights of the books will remain with Stuttering Books, as the intellectual rights will remain with me: only those. All the money you owe me and will owe me on the sales percentages is and will remain yours. I don't want a fucking shit from you. Others will pay me, but you never again”.

Publisher shook his head again: why was he talking about work? What did it have to do with it? What could matter now, after being the only important thing for a lifetime.

"Not ... What does it matter now …"

"What does it matter?" Writer said, falsely surprised, sympathetic, as with someone not particularly bright and who understood little: “Did you want children? I gave you fourteen. It's called joint custody, are you happy? "

They were like so many little arrows, millions of wounds hitting Publisher's already massacred body.

It would have been better if he had wanted to broke him into debts. It would have been better if he had tried to take everything away from him, leaving him with nothing. It made no sense to have everything, if you were still without anything.

"You own fifty percent of Stuttering Books," Publisher said suddenly. Writer frowned, not understanding. He had offered him that possibility long ago and Rick had always refused. Had he given it to him anyway? Without is consense?

"It became official four months ago."

"I don't want it," Writer said, his voice low and hoarse, as if in a menacing growl. A warning to stop, to shut up.

“The house is yours too.” Publisher was giving up his greatest asset after Stuttering, as if nothing had happened. It was worth a lot of money, it was in front of the sea, it was more theirs than hims now, for a long time; "Take it, please".

Writer remained silent, blinking for a moment, as if processing what he was saying: again, Publisher spoke one language and he spoke another.

"But who..." Writer stood up, slamming his fist on the table again, harder than before, growling furiously at Publisher, leaning towards him in a fit of rage like someone who was about to kill: " … THE FUCK WANTS THAT DAMN HOUSE? HOW THE FUCK COULD YOU EVEN JUST THINK OF LEAVING IT TO ME? "

Publisher was lost, that was not a negotiation within his reach: he was not used in business to give, but only to take. The exact opposite that he was in sex. He would leave everything to Writer.

Writer put his hands in his hair, covering his face in a snarl that was muffled by his palms, as he walked away from the table, pacing to calm himself.

"Y-you can sell it if you want, but please take the ho-"

"I HAVE A HOUSE, THE SAME THAT I LEFT FOR YOU. THE SAME WHERE I HAVE NOT FUCKED A STRANGER INSTEAD OF YOU ”.

Needles. They were needles in the heart.

It hurted because it was true.

Writer walked over again, placing his hands on the table with his wedding ring jingling, looking at him with thin lids. An animal is more aggressive when is injured.

“Do you think I haven't had the chance? Do you think I had no temptations? You have no idea how many times I could have betrayed you without thinking twice ”.

That was also true: fans, men of power, casual encounters. Tattoo.

"Do you think it was easy?"

Rick's voice had become more whispered, more cruel.

"But if I had ever done it ... I swear to God, Rickté, never, never would I have been able to take them home ..."

"Riccardo-"

"At our home! In our fucking bed, Christ! " now the voice was broken. It was cracked, broken by an invisible cry that was only deducible from his now shining eyes. As if he felt physical harm.

"I-it never happened before, I swear, I-"

"Why? How many times has this happened? Can you count them? "

No. He couldn't. He had always tried to remove them, insignificant as they were. But they were a burden that felt like they were a thousand.

His silence was already an answer, the worst.

Writer bit his lip to blood, refraining from bursting into tears, looking down at the table and shaking his head.

Publisher swallowed; the hoarse, broken voice in the umpteenth time he called his name, desperate.

"Rick …"

"I know him. We did activism together in the past for a while, before the press destroyed me, even in front of his eyes "he kept shaking his head in disbelief before raising his eyes to him again, cruel again:" What is? What is it, a perversion towards those who think differently from you? Do you like being called _racist_ , does it make you horny? What is it, were they all like this? "

Publisher frowned, almost offended. No. No, it wasn't that. It was because ...

"No, he was ... He was just so similar to you and I..."

A snap. A slap echoed in the room, like an explosion.

Publisher looked to the side, his cheek burning, still feeling Writer's hand on him, even though he had hit him for a moment.

“THEY ARE ALL SIMILAR TO ME, MOTHERFUCKER. WE ARE ALL FUCKING THE SAME. BILLIONS AND BILLIONS OF INFINITE US ".

Publisher turned back to him slowly as Rick slammed both hands on the table again. He didn't give a shit if they were hearing them outside, or if he would find the reporters out there.

“BUT NO ONE IS ME. NOBODY".

Publisher had told him those exact words about Lime. It was a disgusting dejavù, on the contrary.

"And nobody was you!"

_**Was**_.

Publisher stood up, as if to stop him, while Rick pushed his back again, walking away.

"What were you missing?"

He said it like a breath, regretting that question.

"What didn't I have?"

He really asked him. He really wanted to know.

"How could you love me so much if you don't even remember how many times you cheated on me?"

Publisher remained silent, standing. How could he explain it to him? How could he explain that obsessive need? That feeling of never being enough, of being rejected? To be the only one who wants something?

How could he explain that what he lacked about him was him?

Publisher was not Writer. He wasn't good with words. He knew how to accept his feelings better, demonstrate them better, but he had no idea how to explain something so complex. He was not the half of the couple who could do it.

“Te amo de verdad, Riccardo”.

Simple, direct, necessary.

Publisher was that.

Rick pursed his lips, his nose, his eyes narrowing, in pain that tore his heart to death, making him finally cry in silence as he shook his head. Rickté felt dying to see him like this, because of him. He moved, to go around the table, while a tear also ran down his cheek, before a sentence stopped him.

"I hate you".

Publisher looked at him, as if he had been shot.

Bitter tears continued to flow down Writer's face, convinced that he had run out of tears, he was truly convinced. He had not cried with liberation, nor sadness those month: he would have done that some time later. He had cried with hatred, anger, frustration, resentment. Getting worse every time.

"I hate you so much for everything you've done to me ..."

Writer burst into a sob, hating even himself: he had promised himself to resist, to hold up, not to show himself like this, but detached and indifferent. As he always was.

"I gave up on myself for you" they both knew what he was talking about. Activism, the Mortys: before the eyes Writer was seeing all the lives he had ignored, abandoned, betrayed for that single person in front of him, who had betrayed him in turn.

Having married a racist was one of the burdens that kept him from sleeping at night.

“I… wanted to try again with you” here too, they both knew what he was talking about. Marthy. After him, he had sworn never to fall in love again. But he hadn't done it.

He had loved Publisher a hundred times more than the one who had ruined his life. Rickté had paid him back with the same coin.

Publisher was like a punching bag: he couldn't help but get hit. He had no weapons. He had no strength. Not after those words.

Suddenly, Writer smiled, lighting up Publisher's gaze. But that was the smile of a madman, the swan song.

“… What an idiot to believe it”.

He had destroyed him. He had ruined him, again.

That burden was even worse than treason for Publisher.

"Riccardo, I didn't fake what I felt for you."

"Exactly," Writer nodded, his eyes more dilated, obsessed; "That's why you've been a hundred times worse, Publisher."

Writer walked towards him, finally bypassing the table that separated them.

“Because you really loved me”.

"I **love** you" Publisher repeated, stubborn, crying too by now, with what was the only weapon he had. Love for Writer.

Rick pressed his lips together again, shaking his head as if to keep from vomiting so much more on him.

"Oh, Rickté ..."

Being called by name made Publisher moan in pain as he continued to cry, taking his hand in hims. Hope lit both his eyes of different colors, which Writer stared at, desperate too.

"It was my fault," said Writer, surprisingly, amazing Publisher who began to shake his head.

"No, no, fue mi culpa, yo-"

"You're nothing but a racist fuckboy, who played being a husband in love."

Writer pulled his hand away from Publisher's, looking at him with eyes that had something more than disappointment and resentment inside. There was a melancholy, a nostalgia of someone who wanted to believe a lie, with all of himself.

“And I believed it. Like an idiot".

That marriage, in that instant, was crumbled in an instant. As if it never made sense. As if it had been cursed and wrong, from the very beginning.

Writer looked at Publisher, who was heartbroken, before walking out of that room and leaving him alone.

Again.

The wedding ring was on the table.

Inside were their names, a date.

A word.

Eternity.


	24. Stressed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by Lilium125

His taste was like drug, he would never get enough of it, he would never get used to it. His hot skin was like a magnet, the opposite pole that attracted him with an invisible and indisputable force, which he had not tried to resist even once. His perfume was intoxicating, he could recognize it among millions, with confidence, with closed eyes. And it was all his, only for him.

But if there was one thing Publisher couldn't do without, it was his voice. It was never enough for him, he needed to hear him panting, moaning, enjoying. More, more and more… and instead Rick always seemed to hold back, as if he never let himself go completely.

And this Publisher couldn't stand it. He wanted to hear him scream with pleasure because of him. He looked at it from below, licking Writer's member from base to tip, swallowing his transparent precum, but the writer obviously wasn't looking at him too. His arms were raised backwards, his hands probably clinging to the pillow under him, while he breathed deeply with his eyes closed.

It wasn't enough.

Rickté let Rick's erection slide down his throat, quickly, suddenly, managing to tear a moan of surprise and pleasure from those lips reddened by kisses, but even that wasn't enough. He wanted more.

He settled himself better on the mattress, rubbing his hard, wet member between the sheets, while he grabbed his husband's thighs to spread them more, his hands buried in the flesh, to make more room, welcoming the erection up to his throat, completely. He moved slowly, then quickly, knowing perfectly the rhythm to have to enjoy Rick to the fullest, who was breathing more and more deeply, biting a corner of the pillow to keep his voice more and more uncontrollable.

Anything, he would do anything to make him enjoy his best possible.

Writer stiffened, slightly arching his back, on the verge of orgasm, his lips detached from the pillow, open just enough to finally let go of a cry of pleasure.

Publisher opened his eyes, sweating, his face hidden under the pillow, the pulsating member pressed against the mattress, one step away from coming.

It had been a fucking dream, not the first and certainly not the last.

He closed his eyes, pissed off, rubbing his member against the sheets to vent his pleasure, hoping to resume that dream, but by now it was already fading, leaving only some blurry and indistinct image. He got up on his knees on the bed to take off his sweaty shirt, throw it on the floor, running a hand through his damp hair, his head spinning from sleep and lightheadedness. He took one of the pillows scattered on that double bed, he used a lot of them with the excuse of being more comfortable, but the reality was that he had them to make the bed seem less empty. He lay down on his side again, putting the pillow between his legs, trying to ignore the throbbing erection and trying to go back to sleep. He touched his erection through the pants more to fix his hard member better than to feel pleasure, but that slight touch made him change his mind.

There was no way to go back to sleep or ignore the growing need inside him, so strong that he began to move his pelvis, slowly, without being able to stop. He was trembling with desire, a desire so strong and pressing that it closed his throat, so he turned on his stomach, caging the pillow between his legs, moving slowly as in an embrace. He couldn't help but think of Writer, his body under his own on that very bed.

He grabbed the pillow firmly with one hand, as if to block it, increasing the pace and panting between his teeth, wanting to hear Rick's voice asking him to enjoy him more, not to stop. He thought back to the feeling that Writer gave him, to his deep gasps, to his parted lips ready to scream.

From the reflection of the wardrobe mirror you could see the shape of his body, illuminated by the ghostly light of the moon, moving against that pillow; the back naked and sweaty, the muscular arms outstretched and trembling with the effort, the elastic of the pants rolled up on the hips outlined and perfect. He wasn't wearing any underwear, it didn't matter because he was alone in the house, so the fabric lay perfectly on the shape of his buttocks, while his hips moved rhythmically, with deep, powerful lunges.

It was almost a mortal sin that that body boiling with desire was alone, with no one enjoying the pleasure it knew how to give.

Rickté moaned between his teeth, the electric sensation of orgasm ran through his entire body, as he came against that pillow, regardless of getting wet and dirty. He pushed with his pelvis to the end, until even the last drop disappeared between the fabric of the pants and that of the pillowcase, stifling his moans by biting his lower lip. That wasn't the voice he wanted to hear right now.

He dropped to the side, panting, not at all satisfied, throwing his sperm-stained pajamas and the pillow on the floor, the only witness to that moment of weakness, and fell asleep almost immediately, naked, continuing to have strange dreams about his ex husband.

It wasn't enough to cum that night to make him pass the desire, not even a cold shower before going to work was enough, but a stressful and pressing day had served the purpose of getting him through every single sexual impulse.

He just wanted to go to the gym, let off all that stress and finally go to sleep, but it seemed that the day didn't want to end at all.

He was walking through the corridors talking on his cell phone, initially directed to the parking lot below the SB, but with anger he had begun to wander aimlessly, yelling on the phone against Editor.

« _No_ _me_ _importa_ _si_ _tu_ _esposa_ _te_ _distrae_ , you have a fucking job to finish and as usual you are late!

», he ran a hand through his hair, taking off his sunglasses and hanging them by the rod in the pocket of his green jacket, continuing to yell on the phone. He heard Editor on the other end of the phone pretending an interference, blowing into the microphone of the cell phone and speaking at intervals, before closing the call. What an asshole, he would have made him pay for it this time.

As he thought of a way to make him pay, he realized where he was and a lump in his throat immediately went up. If he could, he avoided going through that corridor, where Writer's former office was. Usually he wandered off, not to give in to the temptation to go inside, not to be oppressed by memories, but that day he was tired and did not have the strength to fight against himself.

He took the key to that office from the inside pocket of his jacket: he had made the decision to lock it after discovering that Editor was going to rummage inside, God only knows to find what. He had made sure that it stayed exactly as Rick had left it, in the hope that sooner or later he would return. He entered without even turning on the light and immediately regretted having entered... the room had been closed for some time and the smell inside hit him like a slap in the face. It smelled about books, paper, ink, smoke… it smelled like him.

It smelled like Rick.

He locked the door behind him, walking around the room, accompanied only by the sound of his footsteps. It was painful to see that empty, dusty, cold office, it seemed to him that he could almost see Writer sitting at his desk, with a hand in his hair and a cigarette between his lips, busy in a rereading that did not satisfy him. He missed everything about him, even hearing the keyboard tick as he typed, which he knew by heart, wrote quickly, with a few pauses as he thought, and then began to burn the keyboard quickly again.

He was nostalgic for even the smallest details.

He just sat down on the edge of the uncluttered desk, running both hands over his face, rubbing his eyes wearily, before taking the pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of his black elegant trousers, opening it with his thumb and taking out a cigarette with his mouth, feeling the sweet smell of tobacco pervade his nostrils.

No.

He was giving himself too much that day already, he shouldn't even have been there, he was letting himself go more than he should, he was losing control of the situation and not going well at all. He took the cigarette between two fingers, throwing it into the basket along with the packet and going around the desk, dropping himself on the chair, surrendered, gathering the few mental strengths he had left to try to put together the pieces of himself that was shattering slowly, day by day, before finally and irreparably collapsing.

In the darkness and silence of that office where he shouldn't have been, he closed his eyes again, breathing slowly to regain control, but by now his imagination was playing tricks on him. To smell Writer impregnated in the walls of that room, to miss him burning his chest, was the reason for a further surrender of Publisher for that day, giving shape to the black of his closed eyelids the face of Writer, with the his usual frown, with those icy eyes that judged him. Eyes in which he had been lost countless times, which kept him far, but which hid a depth that he has always wanted to explore, swimming in that ocean to discover all his secrets.

And now those eyes were no longer his.

He took a deep breath, filling his lungs and mind with his scent, abandoning himself to the memories of the past, when everything was simpler, when they were still happy. Excerpts from that night's dream came back to him as confused images, but they were enough to stir something inside him, giving him a jolt in the stomach.

It almost seemed to him that he could still feel the sensation of Writer's legs tightened around his neck, as he worked hard to please him. A trembling sigh escaped him as his pants became tighter and tighter and the longing that had accompanied him from that night returned to cloud his mind. He stroked over his black pants, stiff in his chair, finally letting his mind go free, letting himself go to the memories.

He felt like smiling as he thought about how Writer would have reacted if he had known he was touching himself in his office, and somehow the idea of his pissed expression made him even more horny.

Again he touched the huge member forced into his pants, deeply undecided. He should have left, maybe in the gym he would have found some Rick to let off steam with, but Publisher was weak at the moment and preferred to be there, surrounded by his ex-husband's things and his perfume. The desire he had at that moment could not be satisfied by any other Rick, because as much as they might have resembled him, _no one was Riccardo._

He calmly unbuttoned his pants, pulling out his erection and squeezing it in his fist, sighing softly and closing his eyes. The hand moved slowly, giving him pleasure, as he thought about that night's dream, his taste, his moans.

His moans, his voice broken with pleasure. The member throbbed in his hands.

He bit his lower lip, as he settled himself better on the chair, lifting one leg and placing the hollow of the knee on the armrest of the chair to open the legs more, increasing the rhythm of the hand, raising the black shirt just enough so as not to dirty it with its own precum.

He imagined having him there, kneeling between his legs, licking and sucking his erection, looking at him with those greenish eyes that he loved to die for and was almost about to cum, remembering the first time he had come between those lips, remembering that taste had that same mouth that had driven him crazy, moving the hand with which he touched himself with the same rhythm in which Rick moved... but the memory changed suddenly, mixing with the fantasy, as often happens when you are too excited. And what Publisher wanted at that moment was not to have Rick there to feel pleasure, but to give him pleasure as much as possible. He swallowed the frustration of thinking about how much Writer could enjoy, without ever having the chance _to express_ himself as he wished. He imagined the writer in the same position as in the dream, while with his hands he spread his legs more, without mercy, lifting him so as to expose his opening more in order to finally be able to taste it, licking it slowly, probing it with his tongue while with one hand he masturbated him. Yes, if Writer had ever allow him do it, instead of always refusing, Rickté would finally have made him scream, without holding back, making him completely let himself go to the pleasure he could have given him. But that would always remain just his fantasy... and it wasn't fair. He promised himself that he would do it sooner or later. Wanted or not, Writer would have enjoyed in his own way. And he would have screamed.

He let his head go back, imagining what its taste could be, biting his lip to hold back the moans, his hand running expertly along the wet member, moving fast.

The orgasm came suddenly, explosive, so strong that he could not hold back his gasps of pleasure even though he was biting his lips hard, wetting his abdominals with hot sperm and staining his shirt, in so many drops of semen that looked like pearls on the black of the fabric. He didn't care, he kept touching himself to the end, enjoying every pulse, holding on to that fantasy, until the moment when repentance took the place of excitement, desire was replaced by an even stronger nostalgia, the shivers of pleasure became of pain.

He opened his eyes slowly, still panting. Now Writer's office seemed cramped, tight, empty and cold. It no longer gave him the feeling of being back home, smelling his husband's scent, rather he felt wrong. He immediately got up from his chair, careless to the sperm on his abdomen dripping down and disappearing into the hem of his pants, and pulled the portalgun from the inside pocket of his green jacket, firing a portal directly into his bedroom, just wanting to get out of there. He would return to take the car back at a later time. He threw one last look at the office, just to make sure he had left everything as it was before, that he hadn't left any traces... a lump in his throat made him feel the urge to leave, so he disappeared into the portal.

He had not yet completely gotten out of it that he had begun to undress, throwing the green jacket at the foot of the bed, the portalgun on the jacket, the stained clothes on the floor. He went naked to the bathroom, he no longer even felt like going to work out, slipping into the shower and turning on the water, letting it flow over him without even waiting for it to warm up. The cold jet gave him goosebumps, but he still began to lather himself, washing away for the second time the sin committed that day, quickly and with anger. That wasn't supposed to be a relaxing shower, yet as the water got hot, Rickté began to calm down.

It wasn't his fault that he kept longing Writer, he never stopped loving him, he never stopped fighting to get him back. He began to wash his hair, immersed in his thoughts, thoughts that never left him, night and day, while water and foam flowed over his perfect body and his fingers slipped on the nape of his neck. He gently stroked the spot just below the hairline, where it were greener, closing his eyes and letting go a moan of pleasure, without any intention of holding it back. And even if he wanted to, he couldn't. That was his weakness, his secret.

He gently rubbed his fingers on the skin, feeling shaking throughout his body, as the member returned to harden. He would never have had the courage to share that secret with Rick and for this reason he always wore turtlenecks or high collar jackets, so that no one could ever touch him there, not even by mistake, or he would not be able to hold back his voice. The member throbbed again, hard and needy, and with his free hand Publisher began to touch himself again, leaning his shoulders against the cold tiles, lowering his head so that the boiling jet of water went to stimulate him along with his able fingers. He stroked the back of his neck gently, feeling increasingly weak and exposed. More and louder moans escaped his lips; he no longer needed to hold back. It wasn't his fault that he still wanted Writer, it wasn't wrong to imagine that Rick was touching him like that, _kissing_ him right there, in that little secret and sensitive spot. It was no mistake to scream his name as he came, making it echo through the tiles of that bathroom.

And he screamed, coming for the third time that day, shivering against the tiles, sliding softly against the wall until he sat on the porcelain in the shower.

Sperm, soap, sin and guilt mixed and ended up in the drain, leaving Rickté with a feeling of emptiness, panting, but still not satisfied.

Touching himself, thinking about him, feel his scent, remembering his taste, did not work as a placebo at all. He wanted Rick.

He sat under the jet of water for an indefinable moment, it could be seconds as hours, until he got up, wrapped a towel around his waist, determined to eat something quick and go to sleep.

He entered the bedroom tired, exhausted, but not physically, rather mentally, approaching the wardrobe to get some clean clothes, ignoring his own reflection, but seeing in the mirror that of the portalgun at the foot of the bed. He grabbed it, despising himself for not having a minimum of self- control, a minimum of discipline to tame himself, opening a portal in front of him, entering it and coming back a second later.

In his fist, the packet of cigarettes he had thrown into Writer's studio bin.


	25. Illegal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by Lilium125  
> Illustration by Yusunaby
> 
> NSFW

It was almost impossible in those days to have a moment of peace for Publisher, who had spent those days between meetings and various problems. He no longer even remembered what his desk was like, where he was now sitting comfortably and sipping a coffee calmly, taking five minutes to himself, but that coffee was not meant to be enjoyed, because the boss's phone rang. An internal call, to which he answered by putting the speakerphone.

« P-Publisher, c-can you co-come a m-moment? », Counter's voice came out of the phone distorted, urgently despite the stammering.

« Can't you tell me on the phone? », snorted the owner of the SB, taking a long sip of coffee and stretching himself on the chair, stretching his legs on the desk and his arms behind his head.

« I-I'd ra-rather t-talk to you up c-c-close », the accountant insisted. Publisher couldn't see him, but he was sure he was shaking a little and was sweating a lot. He rolled his eyes and pulled the portalgun from the inside pocket of his green jacket, firing a portal right next to him. He would not have given up on that rare moment of relaxation.

From the green gap, Counter appeared, obviously sweaty and agitated, clutching a series of documents to his chest. He had a contrite, sorry expression that Publisher knew well and that he now associated with some problem that only he could solve. He put his coffee on the desk and lit a cigarette; he hardly ever smoked, but in those moments of false peace it helped him relax more, rekindling memories of a more peaceful time.

He had to get rid of that shitty vice before he couldn't handle it anymore.

Counter looked at him sideways, sitting across from him but keeping any comments on the cigarette to himself, arranging the cards on the table.

« T-today is the l-last d-d-deadline day for W-Writer a-and he hasn't g-gave to m-me a-anything yet

», stammered the accountant, keeping his eyes down as if it were his fault.

Publisher took a puff of smoke, then blew it upwards, taking a few seconds before answering.

« Ask to postpone the deadline », he said dryly, quickly. For a moment he was tempted to go and tease Writer about it, but it hardly ever happened that he missed a deadline and in those days he had seen him more tired and stressed than usual. It cost him a great effort not to go to him to provoke him.

« T-this is the p-problem, b-boss, he has a-already been po-postponed t-t-two t-times ».

Publisher immediately sat up in his chair, pulling his legs down. Had Writer asked twice to postpone? It wasn't like him, it wasn't normal. He threw the cigarette into the glass of coffee, which had taken on a totally different flavor from what he expected.

He glared at Counter, reaching for the documents neatly arranged on the desk.

« Why didn't you tell me before? ».

The accountant looked down again, guilty, to escape the probing gaze of his boss. He absentmindedly arranged the sheets on the desk, aligning them and stacking them neatly on top of each other.

« He a-asked m-me not to t-te-tell you a-a-anything, b-but… ».

« Did he ask you not to tell me? And since when have you been hiding things from me? », the boss's tone was strangely calm, restrained, as he read – or pretended to read – the documents in his hands. Counter's response was just an indistinct stammer, while the guilt was devouring him from the inside: he hated keeping secrets, especially with his boss and friend, they stressed him, made him anxious and put him in a difficult position, in which he had to think about then in every way to fix the situation... but Writer had begged him to cover him, he had promised him that he would be able to finish in time for the deadline, but that was the last day and Writer had not shown up and not he answered his phone calls. He could no longer hide the truth from Publisher, who watched him waiting for an answer.

« Counter », he urged him in a calm, scratchy voice, pulling the black sunglasses from his hair and placing them on the desk. It would have been better if he had screamed or thrown everything in the air. The disappointment he saw in his eyes was like a stab for Counter, but he couldn't speak. He didn't want to disappoint Publisher, but at the same time he didn't want to betray Writer even more, causing what was to be a memorable fight within the walls of Stuttering Books.

« He's r-re-really st-stressed out right n-now… », he began, but the blue-green-haired Rick raised his eyebrows in warning.

« You can't tell the lies, Counter, don't even try. Not with me », the boss's tone was angry, nervous. Counter closed in silence, making Publisher even more nervous.

« If you don't want to tell me, he will tell me in person », he dialed the writer's number by heart, putting the speakerphone back on and making the phone ring in the totally silent office. One, two, three, four rings. No answer.

« He d-do-doesn't even a-answer my c-calls », Counter tried again, quickly thinking about how to get out of that situation by creating the least possible mess, but Publisher was seriously starting to quiver with anger.

« Well, I'll call the Puppy's cell phone », he growled between his teeth, starting to dial that number by heart as well, but Counter let out a high-pitched moan, which caught Publisher's attention, his finger ridiculously suspended on the phone keypad.

« De-Designer is he-here... he s-slept to my house, we c-c-came here to-ogether ».

« How long haven't you heard from Writer? », Publisher's tone of voice began to increase in volume, while an uncontrolled anger began to make his blood boil in his veins.

« F-from l-last night... w-we sp-spoke a-after he a-accompanied the b-boy… ».

Publisher jumped to his feet, furious. To Counter he might have seemed pissed off about the missed deadline, the fact that he didn't answer the phone, that he didn't show up for work, that he forced Counter himself to lie to cover him, but the truth was that Publisher was _burning_. He burned with jealousy at the thought that the writer might have spent the night with someone else.

No, it wasn't possible. He would never put his job aside for a fuck… asking for two postpones wasn't like him, it wasn't normal. What if something happened to him?

Yet the idea of him in the arms of another, who was moaning because of him...

Without even thinking about it, he took the portalgun again and changed the coordinates, firing a portal in front of him and leaving the poor Counter alone in his office, with the anxiety that devoured him and the feeling of having caused an irremediable disaster.

The portal opened into Writer's house, which was dark and silent.

Publisher might have believed that there was no one in the house, had it not been for the ticking of the keyboard, coming from upstairs, where he knew the studio was. Good news, at least they weren't moanings.

He felt his anger fade a bit, feeling stupid for having reacted on impulse, but once the jealousy subsided, pride peeped out and took its place. How the fuck did he dare to make Counter lie to him and put the name of Stuttering Books in a bad light by delaying with a client?

He turned on the light and waited for his eyes to adjust to the sudden light before calling the writer.

« Writer! », he shouted with how much breath he had in his throat, his voice echoed on the walls and immediately afterwards silence followed, then rapid footsteps of bare feet on the parquet.

At the top of the stairs that led upstairs, Writer was looking at him with a pale face, shocked and frightened. Deep dark circles marked his eyes more than usual, his hair was disheveled and he was wearing an old overalls as pajamas, with a black t-shirt and gray pants.

His expression slowly changed from bewilderment to anger.

« What are you doing... how the fuck do you dare to enter my house? », his voice was broken with nervousness, although still upset by that visit. It didn't take long to realize that Counter must have told him the truth...

« If you had answered the phone, you wouldn't have forced me to come and see what's going on ». They looked at each other with contempt, the writer at the top of the stairs, Publisher below, not at all intending to climb. He knew that breaking into his house was already too much, he had overcome that fine line that now existed between them. He just stared at him sternly, regardless of the disadvantage.

« And that's why you break into my house? Go away. I'm working, in a couple of hours- ».

« _Así no eres tú_ », Publisher interrupted him. He looked at him with his eyes of different colors, looking in those of the writer of the answers. He was still trying to deal with the situation diplomatically, trying to figure out what was going on.

« Can you tell me what all this means? Counter told me everything », he added. It was a bluff, of course, Counter hadn't said a damn thing, but the writer couldn't know that. Writer got on the defensive, looking at him angrily from the top of the staircase. Neither seemed to really want to fight, especially Writer who was literally exhausted.

« I don't have to explain to you what I do in my life, Publisher. Now go away », he turned to go back to his study, but Rickté's low but clear voice reached him anyway, worse than a slap in the face.

« None of my business unless you neglect work, in which case I want to know what you're doing. I'm always your boss, remember that ».

Between the two fell an icy silence, in which Publisher continued to look at the figure of Writer, who had stopped in place, still facing the corridor that led to the study.

Wounded in pride, Writer spun around, furious.

« You don't have the right to do whatever the fuck you want anyway, I said you have to go! ».

« Do you want to tell me what are you hiding? », Publisher finally took a step, climbing the first step.

« Don't you dare… », the writer growled between his teeth, who instinctively stepped back, feeling his anger mount even more. His foot landed on something hard and looking down he saw a Designer shoe. He again turned an angry look at Publisher, who continued to confidently climb the stairs, slowly, also with a cold, angry, _jealous_ expression.

« _Who_ are you hiding? », a low, grave, scratchy voice. Writer's eyes widened, shocked. Was that the problem? Did he still have the courage to be jealous after what he'd done to him?

« Nobody, but even so it's none of your business. You have no right… », Rick's voice was just as low, full of anger. The boss was almost at the top of the stairs, his eyes fixed on the writer, not saying a word. Writer looked at him with contempt, but decided to tell him the truth, which at that moment was the only way to make him go away as quickly as possible.

« I've been busy, okay? I was following a trail, I was very close to discovering the refuge of- ».

« What?! – Publisher interrupted him, stopping at the top of the stairs – You're still talking about that? », the boss's expression had changed from blind anger and jealousy to something indefinite: confusion, perhaps, or disappointment. On the contrary, Writer flared up even more.

« Yes, again. And I will never stop. But what do you want to understand, you are a fucking frustrated racist! », Writer grabbed the shoe at his feet and in a fit of rage threw it at him. Publisher parried it with his arms, but he could not even see stright, it was as if his vision became blurred.

He leapt forward and grabbed Writer's arm, pushing him hard against the wall behind him, but sinking a hand into his hair behind his neck to keep him from banging his head. Writer reacted by pushing him away, trying to free himself, but Publisher held him still with all his weight and all his strength and when the writer tried to kick him and push him away, the boss pulled his hair, letting him out a hoarse groan.

« What the fuck is wrong with you? », growled Rick, but in response the boss pressed him even more against the wall, tilting his head to the side and bringing his face close to his neck, brushing it with his lips. He did nothing but breathe, filling his lungs with the writer's scent. He still smelled of soap and clean clothes, because after he got home he took a quick shower, put on the first thing he found, and got to work right away, hoping to get the work done on time.

Publisher raised his face, caging Rick against the wall with his free hand, while with the other he was still holding his hair, resting his forehead against his. Their breaths mingled and along with the citrus smell of the boss, Writer could also smell a hint of smoke.

« Did you smoked? », that question came from his lips without permission and he immediately regretted it, because Publisher smiled, one of those breathtaking smiles that made him feel weak, that made his legs go limp.

« _Solo cuando extraño tu sabor_ », he barely touched the writer's lips with his own and Writer turned his head to the side to avoid that kiss, but it was a wrong move, because in that way he showed his neck, on which Publisher pounced, sucking softly the white skin.

« No… stop it », Rick was red in the face, now fighting more against himself than against the boss, because he didn't want to, it was wrong, they weren't married anymore, but his body didn't seem to think the same way. Those lips knew exactly how and where to kiss him to make him run shivers all over his body, soft, sweet, sensual. The tongue left a hot trail behind it, focusing on the writer's weak points, the neck, the ear... a temptation to which to say no was increasingly difficult.

« I said no! Stop it, _ho detto basta_ , Rickté! », he pushed him away with all the strength he had and this time he managed to make him detach from him, but only to meet his own gaze with Publisher's fiery one. Again, he had made the wrong move. Calling him by his name was meant to serve as a warning, but it had only had the opposite effect.

The boss's eyes were sea and land, deep, seductive, irresistible, horny, and Writer risked losing all will to resist him for having looked at them too long. Publisher pulled his hair back behind his neck to force him to raise his face to his height, stealing him another groan.

« _¿Cómo me llamaste?_ – he stroked his face with his free hand, taking his chin between his fingers and running his thumb over his lower lip – _Dilo otra vez_ ».

Writer tried to turn his head again to avoid the kiss, but this time the boss held him firmly, kissing him urgently, with desire, invading his mouth with his tongue, enjoying its taste and stifling his moans.

Moans of pleasure and dissent, gasps that said yes and no at the same time, the writer's body was on fire, repelling and drawing Rickté to him at the same time.

« No… ».

_Yes._

« Stop it ».

_Go ahead._

« Go away ».

_More._

The writer's voice was muffled by Publisher's lips, which gave him no respite, demanding, fiery. Rickte was deaf to Writer's words, but he seemed to perceive very well what his body was screaming instead. He hugged him with possession, with need, grabbing his thigh and raising it with arrogance, pressing his erection between his legs, against Rick's, equally hard and ready, wet, quivering.

« Why do you say no to me – he moved his pelvis, rubbing his member against Writer's, who couldn't hold back a hoarse moan – when actually you want it more than me? _Eres un mentiroso, Rick_ », he kissed him again, grabbing Writer's hard cock in his fist, starting to stroke it through the moist pants.

« _Basta_ », he repeated for the umpteenth time, but now it only sounded like a hypocritical lie. His body was shaking from the attention Publisher was giving him, whose expert hand was moving slowly, and Writer locked his wrist, trying to stop him, but even his grip seemed false, in a resistance he now carried on out of pure pride.

Ignoring the fist clenched around his wrist that limited his movements, Rickté let go of the writer's erection, grabbing the elastic of the suit and pulling it down, and then clenching his fist again around Writer's hard member. He couldn't hold back a smile as he discovered that the writer wore nothing else under his pants.

Rick squeezed Publisher's wrist, but this time not to stop him, but to vent his pleasure, accompanying his slow movements, unable to hold back his voice.

Rickté increased the rhythm of his hand, wetting it with Writer's precum, more and more wet and excited, moving away from his lips only to move close to his ear, sucking and biting his earlobe slowly, making the writer moan louder and louder.

« _Grita por mí, Papi. Déjame sentir que lo quieres_ », he whispered temptingly, biting his ear again, sighing his pleasure softly, as he rubbed against Rick's leg.

Writer was pissed, he really, _really_ wanted to reject Publisher, but he couldn't. He hated him for what he had done to him, he hated him because he kept provoking him, he hated him because, as always, he did not respect what he was saying... and yet at that moment he wanted him with all of himself. And he hated himself because he let go, stopping that false resistance, surrendering to him, kissing him to hold back the moans. A kiss full of anger, need, resentment, desire.

_Prohibited_.

And that surrender was a pass for Publisher, who took advantage of that moment to unbutton his pants, opening them just enough to make room for his erection, pulling it out and rubbing it against Rick's, mixing their precum, and pulling his pants down even more.

« W-wait… », tried to say Writer, trying to tell him to move into the bedroom, but Rickte was starving, excited beyond all limits. There was no time to move, he wanted to make him his right away. He bit his lower lip with possession, growling out of control.

« _Silencio_ ».

He grabbed Writer by the shoulders, forcing him to turn his face against the wall, grabbing both of his wrists and holding them raised above his head with one hand. Rough, no longer having the foresight he had before, he pressed the erection between the writer's buttocks, completely blinded by the desire, starting to masturbate him again with his free hand, while he moved behind him panting hoarsely.

Rick had never seen him like this and hated to admit it, but it was driving him crazy. Publisher forced him to arch his back, drawing him towards him with the same hand with which he was touching him, placing his member against his opening, wetting it with his own precum.

He pushed into him confidently, pulling him close to him by his pelvis, but was amazed to discover how tight Writer was, who hissed in pain, but said nothing.

At that moment even the last glimmer of reason left Publisher, when he realized that Writer probably hadn't done it for a long time. He would be his again.

He lowered himself on him, hugging him, pushing hard inside him, overcoming the resistance that was Rick's body, without giving him time to get used to. He had never been so excited in his life and if on the one hand a very small part of him told him to slow down, not to hurt him, to be more gentle, on the other hand he felt Rick's member more and more wet and throbbing, so much that the pre-seminal fluid dripped between his fingers, sliding his hand along the rod. He couldn't slow down, he couldn't, and feeling Writer's hot muscles tighten even more around his member was driving him totally crazy.

The more the pace increased, the more Writer's breath broke with each stroke, as he bit his lip so as not to scream, letting out only a few sobs between pain and pleasure, closer and closer to orgasm. Publisher was _huge_ , tough, relentless... Rick was no longer used to his passion, which at that moment bordered on ferocity, and in another situation Writer would have felt outraged by how he was treating him, but neither of them was lucid at that moment, there was no room to think, to reason, to decide.

There was only the desire that in all that time had been forcibly repressed by both of them and that was finally exploding.

Rick arched his back and without realizing it pushed further back, to feel Publisher fully, who bit and sucked his ear, without the slightest intention of making him cum already.

« _No te atrevas, Papi, apenas comenzamos_ », he stopped touching him and came out of him roughly, making him moan again in pain and blocking him a step away from orgasm, but holding him firmly by the hips. He slipped one knee between Writer's legs, lowering him to the ground, dragging the writer's gray pants with him to the floor, and as he knelt he spread his buttocks with both hands, sinking his face into them, starting to lick and suck the opening reddened. The sensation of the warm and soft tongue was immediately a relief for the writer, who bit the inside of his cheeks so as not to scream, punching the wall to vent. The pleasure was intense and hit him in waves, but it wasn't enough... he lowered his hand to try to touch himself, to finally reach orgasm, but Publisher blocked his wrist, squeezing it as a warning, stopping licking him and getting up.

« Why are you in such a hurry to finish? Don't you like how I take care of you? _¿O te gusta demasiado?_ », he placed a foot with the black boot on the writer's pants to block them on the ground, while forcefully grabbed Rick's thigh to lift it and spread his legs, rubbing his ever harder erection against her anus again, to wet it better Writer punched again the wall, feeling himself penetrate, while Publisher began to touch him again, with the same hand with which he held his leg up.

Now that he was wetter and more ready, it hurt less, and with each powerful blow of Rickté he got closer and closer to orgasm, until he came into his hand and on the floor, trembling, unable to stop himself from shouting his name. Publisher tried to hold back, he didn't want to stop, he didn't want that moment to end, but hearing Writer screaming his name, feeling his body tremble because of him, made him explode into an unexpected, powerful orgasm that left him breathless. He came inside him with a growl of pleasure, hugging him from behind, with no intention of leaving him.

They stayed like that, panting, while lust faded like fog and gave way to the awareness of what had happened, to embarrassment, to pain.

Publisher released the embrace and came out of him, stained with sperm and a little blood, starting to feel remorse fill his chest, taking a step back and letting Writer get down to put on his pants and cover himself.

They settled in silence, the writer still from behind, without the courage to look at each other, to speak, but the phrase “ _it was a mistake”_ hovered between them, threatening, bitter.

« I'll tell Counter to ask for a further postponement of the deadline… », were the only words Publisher was able to say. Cold, useless. Writer finally turned to look at him and just as cold was his gaze.

« I just need a couple of hours, you don't have to do anything ».

_For me. You don't have to do anything for me._

They looked into each other's eyes with anger, but a different anger than they had experienced before. An anger now full of remorse and no longer desire. Publisher adjusted his green jacket and gave him one last look before opening a portal and returning to his office, even if the last thing he wanted was to leave.

He said nothing more, the green portal closed.


	26. Unbereable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter by Yusunaby

Unbelievable.

He had been dealing with taxes, salubrity statements, delivery supplies, administration of the entire building and plus, all the other demanding stuff in function to run a company. He never complained, nor even asked for a break in return. The more he worked, the more work he got as reward. No wonder why he hated everytime in which a newsletter hitted his email with new useless goberment requests.

Publisher massaged his temples, feeling the frustration flowing over his greenish hair and landing on his shoulders. He was jaded of following the new ridiculous laws. Unnecessary and dumb, specially when they were about the health of his employees and had nothing to do with his balanced lifestyle.

‘ALL DEPARTMENTS MUST COMPLETE AN EXERSICE RUTINE BEFORE START WORKING...’

He blinked twice, but the red letters on the white space didn’t go anywhere. He took his sunglasses off, dropping the idea of deleting the email and making his eyes blind before such a waste of time, but deeply inside of him, he wanted to do it for real. All of his workers were a bounch of couch potatoes, teaching them some healthy activities might be not that bad.

Perhaps.

...

...

...

And happened that commanding an exercise routine for those who were registered under the bill payment list was easier than expected. On the floor of shipping and deliver, the guys were even excited about showing their strenght and force, the rest of the company complained but had no other inconvenience than agree with a new and unknown temporal requirement. It was at the offices at the fourth floor, where he found face to face with the indiference; having none attending at the place dated. It made him sigh with frustration, ridding his poor patience off, along his hopes.

¨I can’t believe it took you THREE whole putos minutes to move your culos from the desktops to the conference’s room¨ said the boss and mean it, crossing his arms and pasing his weight from the right leg to the left one, snaping his fingers to rush them to enter ¨All of you pigs need to go to gym ASAP¨

The first and faster on enter the room was Designer, who keep his hands hided on his warm blue hodie while looking at the meeting table cornered and the bottom of the office and the chairs on the hall. The room was huge and the window that was permanently covered by the blank sheet (of the projector) now was wide open, letting a beautiful morning sneak into his glance. The words of his (personal) second boss made his smile shrink, and he had no option but look at him with scared and respectful giant eyes.

¨This is what we´re going to do. Every fucking time you come to the office you must prepare yourself physically before getting your ass into your desktops¨ Publisher started undressing in front of them, withdrawing his particular green coat and getting off the eternal black shirt. On display, was his surely illegal sharped body. Big arms and strong chest. Their director was fit and obscenely hot, yet, nothing that was unexpected ¨I don’t want questions, nor complaining, less ‘I’d wish to be dead’ faces, Writer¨

The target turns to see him with the described countenance, his boss smiled him back weakly.

¨Ain't gonna do nothing¨ dropped Writer, walking over his steps to leave the room, bored.

¨Yeah, me neither¨ barked Editor with his arms closed and his glance adressing directly to the only boy in the room, clearly offended and finally rolling his eyes ¨Homeboy, you got me outta my desk for this? I was in the middle of my daily mormon porn-PORCH, porch resource for my house! ¨

¨God’s sa-sake, I thought i-it was going to b-be only f-for the other low wo-workers¨ confesed Counter with an strange look of disbelief. He struggled a lot to see Publisher again, aiming his eyes into those expensive sunglasses but failing and watching his barechest. The director shoked his head in response, forcing the bald guy to continue sheepish ¨I-I-I-I shou-ld have bri-bring my m-maillot¨

¨You all have to be fucking kidding me¨ the Publisher palmed his forehead before lifting his glasses over his head ¨Seriously, none of you is interested on learning a healthy way to start the day?¨

¨I w-wanna try it!¨ the designer raised his hand with a shy smile, but he got completely ignored.

¨If you all are going to decline, then I’ll have to change my whole team to a new one. It won’t be hard. And you also will say adios to our christmas dinner and the new year raffle¨

As if they were children, silence was the only answer, but none of them leave the room, as a sign of resignation. They took off the shoes and the heavy clothes to be lighter before beginning. Setting a

really energetic latino playlist on a cellphone they got placed on circle in the middle of the empty office. The dance routine began awkwardly, but they spreaded the circle to continue each at their own rhythm.

¨¡Excelente trabajo!¨ Publisher clapped his hands ¨Let’s continue with some yoga for relaxing nerves¨ It couldn’t be more humillating.

Publisher Rickté was a really cool guy. He was handsome, charming and had a sharp mind for bussiness; besides being single and almost rich. Yet, beneath his mask was hidden a racist fuckboy, stupid, asshole; fitting on under the tittle of ‘Boss’. It happened that none seemed to read trought him.

None but that one whose green eyes could not get off from the sassy director. While Counter or Editor didn’t mind about a Rick being a Rick, the biggest burden of annoyance was over Writer’s shoulders, aware of the hungry shark leading the team. Cheeky, smug and opportunist, words that could not suit him better. Impulsive and stubborn, as the only two strawberrys visibles on the top of a cake.

Those were the thoughts of the man on the black pullover and lecture glasses. Any exercise is suposed to be to loose stress, but he was actually drowned on hate and resentment, too busy to notice the citric eyes staring at him from the distance, property of an unwelcomed body that reached him from behind.

¨Papi, lo estás haciendo mal¨ a chill ran over Rick when the hands of his boss placed on his waist without warning, slipping them down slowly to fix his pose ¨I can’t remember the last time you did something like this¨ whispered deep and concerned, stroking his voice against the uncovered ear, apparently unaware of the closeness ¨I think you have never tryed this before, even¨

Riccardo first reaction to that unwanted contact was a punch, but the fist never end on Publisher´s face, whom was faster and strong enough to stop the hand; but he didn't release the wrist. Instead, the leader forced the arm to flex over the writer’s back, as moving his hand from his waist to his hip. Stroking him gently while a warning snarl from his worker adviced him to stop. They didn’t want to be loud.

¨Fanculo, leave me alone¨ Writer barked on a muted tone that could only be heard by the other, feeling his left leg being pushed by Publisher’s one, spreading him as they were bending down. The novelist fought to recover his stand but his body was not able to reply that strenght ¨I don’t want your help¨

¨Relájate Owly, you need this¨ whispered again his instructor from behind, sightly touching his ear with the lips and crawling his words with the eyelids half lowered ¨I saw you were having struggles¨

Writer frowned annoyed, blushing before the truth. He used to do cycling; it means, cardio, but his body wasn’t flexible enough for yoga. Not longer suited to any kind of heavy stretch, indeed. But the fact that an asshole as the greenish-hair man reminded it was boiling his nerves; and the unbearable pain on his inseam by trying to reaching the floor with his legs wide opened confirmed his anger.

No one was paying them attention, at least.

¨Ok, basta'' asked the novelist with authoritarian fire on his plea, holding his breath along his pain. He standed a hand on the floor to get some equilibre, but Publisher immediately placed a hand under his belly to keep the contact tight between their bodys; pressing them slightly even ''This is unnecessary¨

¨Vamos, puedes hacerlo¨ Rickté finally released his caughted arm, and after have stroked on circles, abandoned his abdomen also. It ocurred that then placed his hands over both sides of his hip, pushing him hard down till spliting his legs and reaching the ground ¨See? All you needed was a little pressure¨

But a painful moan could not be longer retained. The guy with glasses panted low, feeling his sinews got overstretched. Writer tryed to move away, but the weight of Publisher over him was too heavy. And yet, he got a bigger trouble when the boner of the director began to rub mischiviously against his butt, clearly hard and intentioned. This time, on a cheeky way that made Rick felt an urge to puke.

¨You´re disgusting¨ groaned the writer, not sure if the erection on his ass or the muscle cramp that he was suffering was worse, but his leader move ahead, forcing him to down his upper body to the floor. Rickté had pushed him too rough, making his arms began to shiver and get loose; leaving Writer weak enough to let him press his bare muscle chest against his back.

¨You´re tighter now, at least I can help you to fix it¨ Publisher cloudy voice pinched his worker’s ego, he was whispering hoarsely on his ear, he took a second to taste his lobe, looking careful to don´t be watched ¨You used to had everything you wanted, every single thing that you desired. You know that you can stop writing for clients and doing it for your own entertainment again, as in those good times¨

¨Stai zitto¨ moaned Writer weakly, feeling the rhythm of the rubbing dick on his ass getting faster while his body shivered, the worse of the humillations considering the smell of citric pinching his nose, getting on his nerves as a well known poison drugging him to be relaxed ¨Y-you´re hurting me, Rickté¨

¨Living on a big house on the beach, having more presence and fame in all the medias... wasn’t it everything you always wanted?¨ Publisher closed his eyes, pleased to feel Rick quivering under his body, for pain or rather the unrequired contact, he pressed a little bit harder on him, letting his last sentence got lost on the air ¨I wonder when you are going to stop wasting your time with that child¨

¨Enou-

¨But if you ever want to come back, you’ll be always welcomed¨

The owner of the editorial loosed his grip suddenly, and the weight over the novelist's body was gone. Publisher simply got up and walked away like if nothing had happened. He grabbed his green coat and cellphone to stop the music, asking the rest of the team to dissmiss and return to work, gladly giving them his congrats for having finished the first session of exercise on group.

Designer ran to help Rick, barely aware of what had happened to him, after being dealing with Editor and his instinct of touching boys at trainings or sports. Nonetheless, their hearts were beating so fast, one fueled by fear, and the older with a bitter sensation of having lost versus his nearest enemy.

...

...

...

Unbearable.

Human resources could be drowned by reports (from missing food till naked personal wandering the halls) but no one of them were taken as a real issue. This time was going to be different, it was now unbearable,Writer would be known and heard. It was for real, the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Counter’s office was always perfectly clean and tidy, not a single thing out of place and even the trash was empty, as a sign of care. The aroma was like old pages and antiques, in fact, the whole enviroment demmanded to be labeled as old and fancy. However, in the heart of that large office was the bald guy; crowning the landscape with his tired smile, sweeting by his pure nature and due the novelist presence.

¨It´s about harassment on work, again¨ confessed Rick with the arms crossed and sitting careless over the fillfulled desk of his partner. His voice was rawest than he expected ¨I know you’re tired from me complaining about this, but I need you to restring Publisher to approach to me. My contract explicitly says that he doesn't even have to talk with me... I want to work as freelancer only, me and Morty¨

¨But y-your contract s-s-says that you m-m-must be he-here for at atleast 3 times withinin a week¨

¨I DON’T GIV-

Gazes exchange. Counter was scared.

Writer lowered his eyelids, defeated.

¨What I meant to say... is that I trust you to be the one on... FIX, the contract¨ the novelist sat on the desk, crossing his arms and tilting his head aside to look at him with a charming smile ¨I could never find someone better than you to help me to solve this huge issue, you are... so good at work¨

¨LORD’S SAKE¨ Counter untighted his bow to be able to breath better, the cooler air was on, anyway

¨B-but Writer, i-it co-could take me da-days to re-reajust the sa-salary-

¨That’s why I need you, I know you can support me with this¨

Counter felt the hand of the novelist running friendly over his shoulder, he wasn’t ready that all.

A gasp got free from his lips and that tender smile boiled his nerves; _how could him deny a pray like that?_ Writer was the only one who noticed his work properly, always behaving polite. Seeing him at the building was a delight, but if being there was hurting him that much, he would surely help him.

...

...

...

¨Italiano cabrón. No creas que no me entero¨

Publisher had gone to check the printer working, it relaxed him to hear the eternal paper sound printed on mass, but whenever he could, he checked his cameras at phone to be sure everything was fine. As usual, Editor jerking off, Writer’s office empty and the last panel showing the quietness of Counter was ruined by Riccardo, probably complaining again. Good for him that he just had installed microphones a week ago. Or the worst desicion ever made, maybe.

He was extremely angry but tried to calm himself down; the loser is the one who gets angrier, and he was everything but not a loser. Publisher rolled his eyes and check the following cameras just to kept order, and that was it, his answer, sitting on the hall and probably playing something on his cellphone.

...

...

...

The bench was suddenly heavier, and if it wasn’t for the legs that got crossed over his lap he would not had notice his presence. Designer left down his earphones to greet Publisher, who was half lying on the bench and crossing his arms behind his head. Morty for respect, saved his cellphone inside his pocket and not sure of how to behave, just crossed his arms to hug himself.

¨Bodyguard or loyal puppy?¨ the owner of the editorial laughed, Morty only smiled, finding incredibly unconfortable before such comparision, only Writer could call him puppy ¨Whatever, you seem bored, wanna hang out? I can take you to mall shopping or restaurant... a good one, not that mierda italiana¨

Morty declined with the head and his polite personality forced him to whisper a thank you. Publisher frowned, _wasn´t it what any morty wanted? Attention?_ He hided his angryness by raising his glases and sitting correctly, leaving Morty’s thighs with a red mark where the legs were placed; under his pants.

¨I get it, you’re waiting him here, and here you have to be until he returns¨ Morty nodded, his big eyes were sicking Publisher.

¨Well, you must feel lucky then. I’d never in my life have invited a Morty to hang out with me. I can’t stand their bullshit and cowardness, they’re worthless savages beasts that...¨ laughed Publisher cheeky, shaking his head on hilarious denying and then returned a smile to Morty, who was cockyly frowning, the same look as Writer tiredness ¨But you’re different, aren’t you? Isn’t it why Writer chosed you?¨

¨I can not go away, sir¨ Designer refastened his words with a sigh, joining his hands together and looking at the end of the hall with uncertain nervious eyes, the mild light of the afternoon was printed on the walls ¨I have to wait for Writer¨

_Me too_ , would have been his answer, but the silence fell again in between. The unknown feeling

of sharing a conversation with a teenager was something that Rickté had already forgotten years ago. The inferior concept that he scribbled over the boys was preventing him from loose his rough atittude, but after digested a muted exchange of words and awkward quietness, he dared to talk again.

¨We never had this chance to talk with each other, did we?¨ smiled mild, disgusted; like if he was giving him new information ¨Well, what can I say? You’re have one of the biggest talents I’ve never seen. Writer did well on bringing you here to work. I can see a bright future on you, muchacho¨

But the words died on the deaf ears of Morty, who was not suited to take compliments if not for mock; specially comming from someone as particular as the director of Stuttering Books. The lack of contact they had in commun was absurdly evident. The teenager decided to be as cocky as the whole team leaded him to be, mumbling a weak forced thank you and turning his glance to his phone again; ignoring the lies he had just hear. Publisher however, found himself deeply offended, taken as a fool.

Unbeliavable.

¨Y' know? Once I hired an artist Rick to do your work. He failed his marketing campaign for being useless and poorly creative. I kept his office for someone who really deserved it¨ the man of green hair struggled to continue, bitting his lower lip to keep a cool tone of voice instead of yelling him, outraged for not getting the attention of those eyes that were sheltering on a screen instead of on him ¨Sí, it does have several digital devices to draw and a super confy chair. I was thinking that maybe is time to give it to you as your new office. Right next to mine on the fifth floor, what do yo say? you wanna see it?¨

¨Surely is the quartermaster’s room¨

Three. Two. One. Breath. Publisher put both hands over the boy’s shoulders to shake him messy and unstuck his eyes from the device, snatching him a sigh of sorprise. He was pressing him too hard and it was pretty painful. The leader’s strenght was just too much for the mild body of the small Designer.

¨Tú vas a venir conmigo a ver la oficina, chamaco mamón. No te estoy preguntando¨

...

...

...

¨...and that’s why we will no longer return to Stuttering Books, isn’t great?¨

Cause Writer explained a lie to Designer about the reason of why they departured, to soft the true. The boy, however, remained speechless. He barely understood what his partner just told him. Rick grabbed the keys and opened door, letting Morty in first and then getting inside too. It was night already.

¨We... we will ne-never come back? As... as actually n-never?¨

¨Yeah, of course. We will still working and going to meetings, but not a single feet on that fucking place¨ Writer put his portfolio on the table, Morty holded tighter his bagpack ¨I know, I might not be a happy person everyday, but today is our christmas; we should celebrate!¨

¨B-But why now? W-why t-today?¨

Rick wide smile got shattered. Morty acting weirdly was a little too obvios. Well, he was acting oddly merry too, but the kid looking concerned was a step ahead on his insterest. The novelist took a seat on a chair of the kitchen, and asked Morty to do the same by only pointing at the place with a finger; Morty swallowed before sitting. The enviroment began to get gray and cold, as those of a raw discussion.

¨Che succede?¨

¨N-nothing!¨ not a good lier, not a lier that all ¨I-is just that, P-Publisher...¨

¨Publisher?!¨ Rick’s countenuance switched from calm and concern to a unreadable face. Heated, he run a hand through his hair murmuring something on a completely different language, he felt his

blood draining out his body and then an insdiscriptible anger returned the blush on his pale skin ¨Ma che cazzo that pendejo said to you?¨

¨Nothing!¨ hissed the boy, but Writer hitted the table with his fist before looking inside his jacket for

a cigaratte and a lighter. By the time in which Designer resumed to explain his issue, Rick was already smoking nerviously ¨H-he just assigned me my own office today¨

¨Cosa?¨

¨He said...¨ Morty felt akwardly ashamed of himself for having doubt about Publisher before, he had actually treated him nicely. They talked a lot of funny good stuff, in fact ¨He said that I-I was so good for my age... and... he wanted me t-to work on my o-own office. He took me there and gi-gifted me a new pentab... I-I tryed to decline b-but, I'd n-never afford one of t-those for my own...¨

Writer got eaten alive for jealousy. The most visible clue was his disappointed look and his narrowed eyebrows. The mysterious countenance of Designer, however, was showing way more disappointment than his, as if he had been betrayed without a warning. It happened that the boy felt required for first time at work, and Rick just cut his wings. What a bastard he should have been before the child’s eyes.

¨I-I just, wanted to know... how d-does it feels like...¨ concluded the boy with unbearable pressure. He just wanted to go and hide himself inside the bathroom, as he did on each of his tantrums. Sadly, even if he would have had the strenght to stand a fight, the only thing he could do was following his instict; lowering his eyelids and surrendered before trying to face a problem ¨Nevermind, I’ll take a shower¨

¨No, Morty. This is important for you¨ Rick grabbed him by the shoulder before he left, pushing on it with measured force but snatching a hided a moan of pain from the boy. The grip of Publisher was still throbbing his reddish skin, after have shaked him that afternoon ¨How does it feel like being what?¨

¨No, se-seriously, it doesn’t matter. I n-need to go up-upstairs, p-please¨ begged the boy with a thread of voice that revealed his insecurity. Rick grabbed him tightly, frowning at making him turn back to face him, like if wanting to longer more with the boy: suddenly interested on his desires. Morty felt the strong pressure of Publisher over his shoulders again, but at least, he didn't had do it on purpose.

¨You better said it to me. Now¨

¨No, please¨ moaned Designer, while Rick pressed harder on his shoulder ¨Y-You´re hurting me¨

¨Adesso¨

¨How-does-it-feel-to-be-important-to-someone¨

Rick got his grip losen, numbed. Morty could not more longer retain his tears and ran upstairs to close himself on the bathroom, lasting hours locked without listening a word, as predicted. It made Writer sit alone on the bed, overthinking about what could have happened, sewing that Publisher broke Morty to make him think that he wasn’t important to anyone and making him believe that could be the first one.

Rickté infected his Morty with the idea of have been taken aside, of been treated as underated, and it could be translated as if his work was worthless also. But Writer had noticed him lately, didn’t he? Riccardo backtracked the week, the whole month even; and his fear became truth. He had been too busy to pay enough attention to Morty’s needs, not even for giving him a properly review for his effort.

No, Publisher didn’t convinced him from anything. He just told him the true.

And it hurted Writer the most.

...

...

...

Unbearable.

Rick could not longer sleep alone. He was not suited to see an empty side on the bed, lacking the soft warm and aroma of the teenager. It must had been a really complicated topic for Moriarty to kept him locked on the office study, working or wasting his time until the novelist’s nerves could get colapsed. However, Writer was aware that he was just trying to kept his dignity alive. He could understood that Designer needed a time to himself, to ghost and process whatever that had happened to him by his own.

And after all, his undying pride would never had allowed him to talk to him neither. It was not been even a fight. Writer considered himself free from guiltyness since everything he did was change the schedule so they could spend more time together at home. _Was that something wrong?_ Apparentely yes, because since that night, he did not exchange more words than necessary with his little partner. So days went by, between silence and tension. Among work, cold dinners and different horaries.

Once, he found himself sneaking into their office just to corroborate that Morty wasn´t there, but the highly expensive pentablet device that Publisher (and not him) gave to his kiddo was on the desk.

Writer felt his stomach twisted. He went downstairs to seek the boy and didn’t make a big effort, Designer was sleeping on the couch with his glasses still on, probably on a rest that end up as nap.

If it wasn’t good or bad, he carried the boy as a bagpack and took him into their bed.

There, with the light of the moon melting the room and with his feelings naked, Writer felt the urge of fixing their relationship. He obviously wasn’t going to let Designer to have his own office at the building, it could be dangerous for predators and indeed, it seemed to created a biggest issue. But he also perfectly understood that giving to him the chance of having a personal space and not being ‘the second one’ or ‘the shadow’ all the time was critical important.

Moriarty was apart of him, but he was still being at his side.

Publisher was the only one to know how to play his cards to fuck him even if not being at Stuttering. Writer felt again a rush to be able to talk and live with his designer as before, but he needed to fix the situation first, althrought, just to think about ‘having a conversation’ with his boss made him sick.

Rick left a kiss on Morty soft lips before leaving him on the room alone.

...

...

...

¨Vaya, ¿tanto me extrañaste como para venir a verme?¨ spat the director, looking into the sheets on his desk and not at the slender figure that just stood with the arms crossed in front of him. However, under the eternal dark sunglasses, Rickté ran his eyes over his body, smiling amused and resuming with mockery printed with his words ¨What’s this? Can’t you bear to be far from me? Or you returned just to see me one more time? I love your visits, but please wear less clothes when-

¨Shut the fuck up¨ exploded Rick, serious, towering over the editorial owner with a severe glance that didn’t had house to brightness; unable to hide his rage ¨Look, I’m just here because you told my Morty-

¨How much I respect him? Por supuesto, all artists are sensitives, if they don’t get fedback they do huge outrages and drama¨ Publisher crossed his arms, arching an eyebrow and relaxing ¨Better yet, sometimes they need a little pressure, as I did support you before... you come here for more help?¨

The office of Publisher was on the floor above the team. It was huge and currently lighted by green neon lights. At day, it was political and neat, but at night and for public relations, it was almost a bar. The touch of low music and the annoying cool enviroment made it worse. Not to mention they were alone. Rickté stood up, walking to the lounge and inviting Writer to take a seat that was rejected.

¨Yeah ‘help’, I owe you a smash on the face for that, fucking bastard¨ snorted Rick, Publisher ignored his words by laughing low and shoking his head amused, going for a drink and giving one also to his partner. Writer did not grabbed the glass, but when his boss sat down, he did the same on a couch in front of him ¨I just want to know what the fuck you told him¨

¨The truth, Owly, only the truth¨ concluded the greenish haired man. Riccardo closed his eyes with annoyance before the low discrete laugh became loud and messy, filling the room with disbelief. By the time in which Writer reopened them, Publisher was standing on his feet, drinking his glass of wine while walking on a half circle¨It was amazing, indeed. That little whore had a lot of things to share but

nobody who listen him; I knew he was trained to be quiet but not even I would cut Counter on that way. Hands down you’re a terrible father... or boyfriend, whatever you are for him¨

¨I’m his boss-

¨So I’m yours¨ Writer felt the body of Publisher stood behind him, his citric scent was stroking his nose, the same smell of that exercise morning. The familiar lime smell that made his nerves go tensed and yet, gifted him a need to puke ¨And I don’t treat you like that. I don’t ignore you and then pretend I do care¨

The director lowered himself, whispering on Rick’s ear again, the one with an earring. The novelist shivered, there was not physical contact, but he was really unconfortable with his presence and his voice. On top, the words where hurting him, making him felt guiltyness for have been so careless with the poor boy. Maybe, the words where too heavy to be listened, too raw to be digested. Might be, that those weren’t the precise words that he was willing to hear.

¨I concern about you all the time, as always¨ the dry hot tongue traced a path on his skin, tasting the earring, and devouring the soft smooth flesh of the lobe, his lips catched and sucked that spot before resume talking on deeper hoarsed voice, drunk, by the closeness ¨Aunque no siempre te lo merezcas¨

A weak but loud moan escaped from the novelist, who quickly moved himself from the individual couch and rubbed a hand on his ear to clean the drool. He didn’t expected his Rickté to dare, and he didn’t expected finding it pleasant either. When their glances matched, Publisher was stunned.

¨¿Ves?, todos los artistas son sensibles, definitivamente¨

¨What the fuck you just did?¨ Writer lost his control, yelling already and getting ready to fight, as Publisher walked until his personal space with a mischivious countenance that declared himself innocent from any sin ¨Why you can never be serious? You’re a fucking clown, this is about Morty-

¨Oh you want me to be serious? You want me to act serious?¨ Publisher stabbed both powerful arms around Writer’s head, cornering him against the wall. The novelist felt the urge of kick his balls and run, but his body was freezed for some reason. Lost into a gaze that didn’t exist due the sunglasses.

The director tightened the space between them, pressing his firm body against the mild body of his worker untill made his back touch the wall behind. Then quick and expert, Publisher grabbed both of his arms above his head in a speed that did not allow Riccardo to take a breath. The abussive strenght difference was tiring and unnecessary, and it made Writer sweat on cold. Yet, nothing had happened.

¨Mira papi, si tú quieres que te trate seriamente¨ Publisher raised his glasses on his forehead, finally granting a criminal glance to those green eyes that were looking at him with severe rage, trying to hint the next movement of the man in green long coat ¨Then you should stop pretending to be the ‘perfect gentleman’ with that boy or with whoever. Tú me perteneces, ¿te queda claro?¨

¨If this is your old same trick, I’m not longer impressed¨

¨I cleaned your name of the unfame. I helped you to heal from those rumour. I made you feel important and coveted as you never was before¨ Publisher downed his lips to the novelist’s neck, speaking hoarse against the sweaty skin, reaching his ear to continue ¨You owe me yourself to me, and I’ll have you¨

¨Get the fuck OFF OF ME!¨ Writer was boiling on fury. He pushed the boss away, feeling a thread of salive between his earring with Publisher’s tongue getting vanished ¨You’re completely insane¨

¨Before me, you were nothing but a self called activist that could not even take care about himself. A poor writer labeled as pedo whose career was downing on flames. You were on ruins and I saved you to falter down¨ the director did not approached again to Writer, who reamained frozen against the wall but staring at him directly on the eyes, drinking the heat of his words ¨I gave you everything I had, everything I was. If someone deserve to have you to their side is me, not a fucking child you just meet¨

Writer was so done of that behavior. He was so done about everything related to that whicked work. To that cheeky bastard. Rick was about figth the mexican back, but by knowing that he wouldn’t win a physical fight, he just grabbed his coat to leave. It had been enough, he was expecting everything

but not that displaced behavior and speech. The desesperation leaded the boss to act as a crazy maniac. The desesperation leaded Rickté to stood at the door, with arms closed for blocking the exit.

¨¿A dónde crees que vas, papi? We were just having fun¨ the mockery on Publisher words made Writer ignore him, grabbing the courage to try to pass by, but the strong arm of the editorial owner crossed on the door frame, pushing his body aback to lock him inside again ¨ Let me tell you something, if you cross this door you will commit the worst desition of your life¨

¨Move fucking away Rickté, I'm leaving¨

¨I’ll have mercy and let you choose¨ Publisher denied with his head, but he actually felt a twist on the stomach when the beautiful green eyes of Writer became cold and blind by dark anger. The boss played the last card of his deck ¨Rather you fucking agree to be mine again or I promise I’ll make your life a hell until you return crawling back to me¨

¨Are you fucking threatening me now? Are you this desesperate to don’t be alone? That’s why to talked with Designer? To don’t feel like being left behind?¨ exploded Rick, feeling his veins boiling again, his pupils constricted, his eyes become watery as he stabbed his flesh with his nails, by clentching his fists with force ¨Congratulazioni! You are alone, lonely and miserable thanks to your own fucking fault!¨

Publisher wided his eyes, taking aback his pose and crossing his arms with arrogance, looking his partner from above but feeling the unwelcomed true began to leak within his self injured cracks.

¨If only you would have think better before neglecting your Morty, if only you would have think twice before hurting me as cruel as you did... you wouldn’t had lose him, you wouldn’t had lose ME, neither¨ Riccardo swallowed the regret before it could reach his mind. He walked as a caughted damaged lion, hissing in pain but continuing ¨You had lovely marriage and a perfect life to share with me but you made yourself sure to break it all by your selfishness and treason. IT WAS ALL YOUR FAULT!¨

Writer won.

Perhaps not his intention that all. He could felt his anger got cleaned on a second, leaving room only for tension and mistery. Luckily the music was still on among the brutal silence. Then the owner

moved quickly to the bar, holding the internal bleeding of his deepest wound, Rick felt a twist suddenly, it was been unexpected even for him, the remorse flavor was something that he forgot.

¨Rickté¨ managed to spoke Writer, tasting the rawness on his words. Probably too late to withdraw a true that was hided. But once have vented, he found himself unable to run away, to cross the last line.

¨Please close the door when you leave¨

¨I didn’t want to-

¨CIERRA LA PUTA PUERTA¨

Rick did as Publisher said, but even with the music and the door closed he could hear his wailing.

The sound of a heart getting broken.

Unbearable.

...

...

...

¨Rick! O-Oh my god, you´re ba-back!¨ the man could not prevent the sorprise when Morty ran right into his arms to hug him on the front garden. It was very late in the night, yet the boy was covered on tears ¨I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I acted so wrong this days, please don't ever leave me anymore¨

The hug got tighter and Designer buried his face on Writer´s chest to stifle his crying. Rick hugged him back, feeling the biggest part of him get relaxed. He stroked a little bit his brown hair before looking at him again, this time at his giant watery brown eyes. They were lucky to find each other.

¨Morty¨ sentenced Writer with softer voice, lowering his eyelids with tireness and ridding the hug to knelt and be at better size. He looked into his eyes and everything he could see was concern, fear even ¨You’re already very important to me. I don´t want you to feel sad only because others-

¨Who c-cares about o-others¨ Designer smiled with a short snort, digging his fingers under his glasses to clean his eyes from the warm tears ¨I only care on being important to you... I’m so sorry for have ghost you, I’m so sorry for have been acting like a bruto scemo¨

¨Hey, don’t be silly puppy, don’t apologize for this, and never call yourself like that¨ Rick placed his thumbs on the eyes of Designer, helping him to wipe the crumbs of sadness. The teenager put his tiny hands above, the size different made Writer wided the eyes with remorse and quit his touch.

¨I-I thought I w-was losing you...¨ Morty sat on the ground, so Rick followed right after, the night was beautiful, they actually never went to the front garden unless for watering plants. Now the moon was witness of a healing conversation ¨I knew you wanted more time for us... Im feeling so bad right now¨

¨I was feeling bad too, you know? Overworking for a company that treats us like shit¨ began Writer, crowning his words with a sigh. Morty placed his head on Rick’s shoulder feeling the tireness on his low voice, Rick moved his head to rest it on the child’s one ¨This is not the life I wanted for me¨

¨...I wish you c-could be more h-happier, nothing w-worths more than health and happiness¨ Designer absorbed the melancholy from Rick, suddenly feeling weak and small against real life issues, scared

¨I know you’re not h-happy, and I would give everything I h-have to see you like that, j-just for once¨

¨Well, you won this time, puppy. Without you, I would never have dared to move on¨ Writer laughed gladly, the teenager moved his head to look at him and trying to catch answers, but he couldn´t face Rick, he was staring at the eternal moon on that unique night ¨I quit working on Stuttering Books¨

Unbelievable.

...

...

¨He did WHAT?¨ Editor spit the half of bread he was eating over Counter bald point, but continuing to chew again immediately ¨He left his job? His office is empty?¨

¨D-D-Dear lord¨ spoke the Counter slowly, withdrawing the watery bread of his head and cleaning his hands on Editor’s tracksuit ¨H-he won’t co-come b-back?¨

Publisher was sitting with the legs crossed over the table, restaured, with his same charming look of victory. He was about to anwser them, but a call interrumped his intention, making him ask them for a second on stand by. The man of the orange suit didn’t miss his opportunity to ran away, grabbing Counter wrist to lead him to a private place. Writer’s office, it had to be. He closed the door behing and put the two hands on his partner’s shoulders, who look at him clearly outdated from reality.

¨You will be the only witness. This is the only thing I can do on this situation¨ Editor farted there.

Unbearable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is happened.
> 
> Writer and Designer left the Stuttering Books.
> 
> What now?

**Author's Note:**

> [Art Gallery](https://starry-citadel-au.neocities.org/stuttering-books.html)   
> 


End file.
